A Harder And More Necessary Lesson Than I Imagined

For a long time, I simply didn't think about whether there was anything beyond or after this life.  That spell was interrupted, at times, with my denial that anything of the sort existed.  It was easier, really, than trying to reconcile the possibility there could be a deity with the fate I had been dealt in my life--which, of course, includes my gender identity--let alone the fates of other people who suffered all sorts of cruelties and injustices.

For years, when people asked about my beliefs and I couldn't find a way out of answering, I replied that I was an atheist.  It was easier to argue non-belief to a believer--actually, it still is, for me--than it is to reconcile the interpretations I usually read and heard about the divine or the supernatural with anything I had seen in my life.

For much of my life, I didn't want to believe, even if a way to reconcile belief with reality (as I understood) had been explained or revealed to me.  People tried to convince me that their way was right or that they accepted people (i.e., me) but not the things they did.  Or they spewed what I thought was the most awful and absurd line:  "God loves you.  God loves everyone."  That, to me, was a sure sign that the person uttering it hadn't the first idea about what love is.  Hey, there were times when I thought that love itself is a delusion.  Sometimes I still wonder...

For the past year and a half, I have been attending a church.  I'm still uneasy about it.  It's not because, as one parishoner suggested, I'm worried about what other people think.  (I stopped worrying about that when I realized that too many people simply don't think!)  Actually, there is still a part of me that doesn't want to be convinced that there is a God (or whatever name you want to give) and that s/he (or whatever identity) loves me, or anybody.  And, in spite of what I have experienced over these most recent months, it's still hard for me to believe, sometimes, that I've met people who are actually Christians or adherents to any other faith, let alone clergy, who don't think I need to be changed or "cured".  Actually, one of the priests in my church has asked me a lot about my identity and story because this priest admits, "There's still a lot I don't know."  This same priest has listened to me talk about all sorts of other things and has helped me in other ways.

Yes, there are all those verses--mainly in the Old, but sometimes in the New--Testament that warn against "a man lying with a man as with a woman" or whatever.  But, as a student of literature, I know that all sayings, all words, come from specific places and times.  Some of our greatest writings contain notions that are outdated or simply quaint, and portrayals of people that we today consider to be bigoted.  Some things were forbidden because of conditions that prevailed at the time (for example, in the time Exodus was written, it probably was important to produce as many children as possible) and the tenets of Judaism and Christianity developed in a context of notions about gender and other cultural mores that most of us (well, at least most people I know) would find abhorrent or simply incompatible with life as we know it.  

But, whatever prohibitions there are in the Bible, the harshest utterances of Jesus himself--at least, the harshest ones recorded in the Bible--were not directed at gays, lesbians, bisexuals or transgenders.  In fact, the Bible, as far as I can tell, says nothing at all about trans people. (Some interpret "a man shall not appear as a woman" as an injunction against us.  But those of us who are trans women would argue that we are not men.) Nor were they directed at those who suffered any sort of prejudice or oppression.  Rather, he reserved his most scathing indictments for the Pharisees, those religious teachers so focused on rules that they forgot what mattered, namely mercy and compassion.

Mercy and compassion.  Learning that people actually try to practice such things, as best as they know how, to people like me--and not only because we're trans or whatever--is a harder lesson to learn and accept than I could have imagined--almost as hard as the struggle with my gender identity. But it seems that I have no other choice but to learn it.

Prejudice, To The Letter

Last night, I was having dinner with two friends and a friend of theirs—who, as it turns out, is a neighbor of mine.  We’re all artists and teachers of one kind or another so, as you can imagine, topics of our conversation included writers and writing, education and politics.

The friends are a couple; I met them in the church I’ve been attending.  Their friend—a nice straight woman who grew up Roman Catholic—is not religious but seems to be a theist of some sort.

Anyway, at one point, the conversation turned to the influence of religion in politics and what that’s meant for us.  One of the couple mentioned Michelle Bachmann, and talked about how she’s emblematic of what’s corrupting both education and politics:  She, like some other politicians and others working behind-the-scenes, attended fundamentalist Christian colleges and law schools.  “They want to run this country according to their version of Biblical law,” my friend exclaimed.

Of course, any time anyone tries to run anything according to the letter of any sort of scripture—religious or secular—said scripture is filtered through the mind of whoever is interpreting it.  We all have prejudices, but I am coming to realize that’s not the real problem of trying to run a country according to Mosaic or Sharia or whatever kind of law.  Instead, the real danger comes when someone tries to use a text—whether it’s the Bible or the Constitution or the Communist Manifesto—to support a particular agenda that has little or nothing to do with the text itself.

Here’s an example of what I mean:  Many well-intentioned people harbor unconscious prejudices against people whose races, nationalities, gender identities and expressions, beliefs or sexuality differ from their own.  Most of us learn those prejudices long before we learn even the words for them, let alone the intellectual tools to take those biases apart.  Being aware of, and fighting, them is all we can do.  On the other hand, some people will try to institutionalize those prejudices, whether through Biblical rationales for slavery or Koranic (Is that the proper word?) justifications for killing infidels—or using some interpretation of the Talmud as a basis for isolating themselves and their fellow believers from everyone else.

Essentially, Michelle Bachmann and her ilk are among those who are trying to use the Bible as a legal basis for discriminating against LGBT people.  What’s even worse, though, is that people like her have joined forces with lawyers and politician whose legal education is based mainly on property rights (or, again, someone’s notion of them) as well as laws and interpretations of laws designed to allow very wealthy people to gamble with what little people poorer than themselves have.

Why is the situation I’ve described so dangerous?  Well, making this country into a fundamentalist (again, according to someone’s interpretation) Christian state can leave us disenfranchised:  Enforcing bans on same-sex marriage, and repealing laws that allow it in some states, will be just the beginning.  Call me paranoid, but I can imagine someone creating a “heterosexuality test” or some determination of how closely someone conforms to accepted notions of gender identity and expression.  What will happen if such tests are used to determine whether someone can vote or get a job, loan or place to live? 

Such a test might be devised by Bachmann’s husband, a “psychotherapist” who practices “conversion therapy.”

Why We Are The Future Of Faith

Lately I've found myself thinking more and more about an issue that I ignored and had assumed I would always ignore:  that of the relationship between transgender people and religious communities.

You see, for a long time I told myself I wanted nothing to do with any religion.  Most of the time, when people asked about my faith, I'd say I didn't have any (unless, of course, I grunted "It's none of your fucking business!").  It's a lot easier to say you don't believe in a supreme being or power, or anything beyond this physical world, than to get into arguments about what it is, isn't or might be, or why I don't subscribe to someone else's belief.

Even so, I couldn't help to notice that more than a few trans people are involved with religious communities.  Some, like Eva-Genevieve Scarborough and Joanne Priznivalli, write about their experiences on their blogs.  Outwardly, I expressed astonishment that any trans person would want to be a participating member of a church, synagogue or other organization, let alone study or train to be a cleric.  I told myself such people were misguided, at best.  Sometimes I wondered whether they suffered from advanced cases of Stockholm Syndrome.  What else could explain their desire to identify with institutions and members that, very often, told them they were vile sinners or that they simply didn't exist?

One thing I could not fail to notice was that they--and some trans people who weren't overtly religious--often described themselves as male or female "in spirit" and their processes of "coming out" and transitioning from living in the gender they were assigned at birth to life in their true selves as "spiritual" experiences.

Yes, those words came up a lot:  "spirit" and "spiritual".  I even used them to to describe my own journey.  And on the night after my surgery, I had a very long, detailed and intense dream that, for me, could not have been evidence of anything else.

Perhaps my perceptions were colored by the fact that most of the support groups I attended, and most of the trans-related activities in which I participated, involved people who were beginning their transitions--or simply exploring the possibility of doing so--in the middle of their lives, or even later.  Not a single one of them spoke of their wishes merely in terms of changing their body parts; they all spoke of making their corporeal forms more reflective of their "true selves" or "spirits."  I have come to believe that if you have reached a certain age before embarking upon the requisite counseling and medical treatments, you really can't see your change in any other way.

(To those of you who are young--say, under 40--I hope I don't seem condescending.  If you really understand your identity and why you want to change your body to reflect it, you are more mature than most other people.  On the other hand, I have seen very young people who see the transition only in terms of hormones and surgeries.  They will say or do whatever they think they must--including sex work--to get them.  The consequences are often tragic.)

Anyway, I realize now that the revulsion I expressed at religious institutions was, in part, a response to my own earlier experiences with them.  I grew up as a Roman Catholic and spent several years in a school affiliated with the church.  I was even an altar boy!   Although the Church was, and is, repressive and I had some rather unpleasant (to say the least) experiences with priests and nuns, I have to admit that I received a better education than I might've otherwise had.  And, truth be told, for all of the bigotry that's part of its doctrine, I was safer there as a sensitive and possibly effeminate boy than I was on, say, sports teams or ROTC (both of which I would later participate in).  And, as Richard Rodriguez points out in A Hunger of Memory, there is less socio-economic class prejudice in the Church than in other parts of society.  Growing up in blue-collar Brooklyn, I was aware of that fact, even if I couldn't articulate it.  

And now, it seems, there are some religious leaders--and their followers--who actually understand that following the precepts of their faith means treating as they would other people.  Love thy neighbor--whether trans or cis--as thyself. Thou shalt not kill--whatever the identity of the person.  

Perhaps even more to the point, some are starting to realize that if their faith communities are to have any future at all--let alone carry out their missions--they must include people of all identities.  Actually, it goes deeper than that, as Joy Ladin points out:  Judiasm, of which she is an adherent, as well as Christians, Muslims and others cannot continue to confine themselves to the gender binary. It's not just a matter of the survival of religious institutions; it's a matter of allowing all people to participate in life as fully realized beings.  That, as I learned during my own transition, means understanding the spiritual dimension--forget that, the spiritual reality--of a person's identity.

Keeping The Faith

Like most other transgender people, I have experienced discrimination, shame, rejection and even hostility for living in accordance with my true self.

Now, as to whether I've experienced more or worse ostracism than others, I don't know.  I have lost longtime friendships, relationships with relatives and professional colleagues as well as access to people, places and things that were once part of my life.   

By the same token, I have been more fortunate than many other trans people--and many other people, period.  I have been welcomed by people and into places when I expected no such hospitality, and at times I have had glimpses into worlds I would not have considered in my old life.  

I'm thinking now of the first time I entered a mosque.  After I took off my shoes, a caretaker directed me into the area in which women prayed.  We sat on wooden chairs behind a partition about three feet high.  The other women prayed, some audibly.  A few retreated to a more private but still-visible area (from which they could have seen the rest of us), removed their headscarves and washed themselves.  

Granted, we were in the Sultanahmet or "Blue" Mosque in Istanbul.  But I had similar experiences in other Turkish mosques, in the countryside as well as the city, some of which were not visited by tourists or other foreigners.  While those visits, and the hospitality of both the women and men, left me with no desire to become a Muslim (or, for that matter, an adherent to any other religion), I felt privileged to be allowed to partake of what, for some people, is the most sacrosanct part of their lives.  

I hope that Lucy Vallender will have such experiences one day soon.

Three years ago, she had gender-reassignment surgery.  Before that, she'd been a soldier in Her Majesty's forces.  After her surgery, she met a Muslim man on an online dating site and became his second wife.  She is believed to be the first transgender Muslim woman in the United Kingdom.

Although she says she's happy with her marriage and new-found faith, she was upset witht the way her local mosque, in the southwestern city of Swindon, has treated her: She's not allowed to pray with the other women and, she says, worshippers have asked her rude questions about everything from her bra cup size to whether or not she has a period.  They've even asked to see her birth certificate.

When I took my trip to Turkey, I had been on hormones for nearly three years and had been living full-time as a woman for just over two; about three and a half more years would pass before my surgery.  I don't know how long Ms. Vallender had been living as female before her surgery or marriage but, from what I've read about her, I probably had more experience, if you will, than she's had so far.  Also, I was nearly two decades older than she is now, which may have given me some social and other skills she has not yet acquired.

I hope that nothing I've said seems condescending toward Ms. Vallender.  I suspect (or, at any rate, hope) that her faith, her love for her husband and his for her will give her the strength she will need to develop the patience she will need until people in her community understand (to the degree they can or will) and accept her. I believe that she will find such acceptance, and even the hospitality I've experienced, because in my travels and in my work I have met very, very good Muslim people--and, most important of all, because she has accepted and embraced herself. 

The Spirit Moves Them To Harvard Divinity School

According to an in-the-know friend of mine, the Harvard Divinity School has more than its share of LGBT faculty members and students, and that a large number of theses are being written on topics related to LGBT and spirituality.


Somehow, even though I don't consider myself religious, what this friend tells me makes perfect sense.  Some cultures have seen dual-gendered or two-spirited people as having particular conduits to the divine or spirit world.  For this reason, they were often accorded the tasks of mediating disputes and performing marriages and funerals and were exempted from some of the duties normally expected of people of their physical or birth genders.


However, I think there is another reason why many LGBT people are returning, as clergy members, to the churches that once shunned them, or from which they felt alienated.  It doesn't have to do with "liberal" or "post-modern" interpretation of the Holy Scriptures or some such thing.  Rather, I feel that our identities--particularly for those of us who are of transgender experience--are not merely about our physical, or even psychological or sexual selves.  We identify ourselves as we do because of a force within us that is independent of just about everything else.  Freudians would call it the subconscious, a term which is accurate as far as it goes.  While I believe there are forces within us that influence, if not govern, much of our behavior, I also think there is a dimension of our selves that is both within and beyond our conscious and subconscious minds.  Perhaps it is a supernatural force, and there may be a being or beings responsible for it.


In other words--for lack of a better term--being lesbian, gay, transgendered, bisexual or of whatever orientation or identity you care to name is as much a spiritual state as it is a psychological or physical one.  In fact, one might say that the very fact of life (as opposed to mere existence) is a spiritual state.  As Pere Teilhard de Chardin said, we are not human beings having spiritual experiences, we are spiritual beings having human experiences.  


Lots of people would deny (or simply not understand) what I've just said.  However, many of those same people would say that our selves and our lives, whatever they are, are created by God (or whom- or whatever else they believe in).  For them, that is sufficient reason for LGBT people to believe, to worship and even to feel that they are "called" into the clergy or to become theologians.  


Now, I just happen to believe that one can believe whatever one believes independently of other people, and that one can pray (or pay homage to their Supreme Being or Force) in the privacy of their own selves.  However, people who are spiritually moved, more often, want to share what they regard as the "gift" of their faith with others, and seek the company and support of others who are similarly motivated.  LGBT people who feel such impulses and "callings" have, I believe, even more reason to want the company of like-minded people and the support the structure of an institution of such people can offer them.  After all, many face ostracism and worse in their daily lives, often from the very people who were supposed to love and nurture them. And, those who have not become embittered by such experiences often feel the need to reach out to those who might be hostile to, or simply not understand, them.  


So it doesn't surprise me that more and more LGBT people are turning or returning to the places of worship that shunned them, and are even following "callings" to become members of the clergy.  And it surprises me even less that they'd be studying and teaching in places like Harvard Divinity School.

Why I Enjoy Lunch With Them

Today I went to lunch with Mom and a friend of hers.  The town in which they live is a bit different from my neighborhood, where I have two Chinese restaurants (one Halal) as well as Mexican, Italian, Greek and Japanese/sushi establishments--not to mention a nice little bakery/cafe that isn't Starbuck's.


Most of the restaurants here are franchises of chains.  We went to one of them: Ruby Tuesday's.  I didn't mind:  The food is better than what's served in most other chains, in my opinion, and the service is professional and friendly.


Probably the only people in Florida who are happier than she is to see me are my mother and father.  And I really enjoy her company.  Today, I understood why:  I don't feel like I'm explaining myself or rationalizing (or, worse, defending) things I've done.  I simply feel like I'm having a conversation with another woman who happens to be sympathetic and empathetic.  And, knowing her as a friend of my mother's makes me feel closer to my mother, which is something I appreciate. 


In some ways she is like my mother:  She doesn't have a lot of formal education, but she is very intelligent and wise.  Her religious faith is also important to her, as it is for my mother.  Both are what people would call "practicing Catholics":  They go to church, observe all of the religious holidays and pray.  Plus, they are what some people would say are the "true" adherents:  They defer judgment to the God they believe in, and try to be loving and helpful to people.


As it happens, I have another friend like them:  Millie, who  rescued Max.  With her, with my mother, with my mother's friend, it's not a matter of being "accepted as" a trans person or a woman.  I simply feel like a whole, integrated person around others to whom I can relate, and who understand me.  I'm not a case study or a subject for experimentation--or, worse, someone who fits, or doesn't fit, into what they saw in some textbook in a gender studies course or manual from a workshop. 


That said, I do have friends who are educated in the sense that most people mean.  And they have accepted me on my own terms.  But I don't think their friendship has much to do with their schooling.  By the same token, I don't think whether I can become or remain friends with someone has much to do with that person's religious beliefs, or whether or not she or he has them. I take that back:  I've actually encountered love, acceptance and pure-and-simple helpfulness from people who were motivated, at least in part, by such beliefs. 


Back to my mother and her friend:  The time I get to spend with them will make me at least a little sad, for a little while to go home.  At least I know I can have similar experiences there--whether by having lunch, going for a bike ride or just talking with someone to whom I don't have to defend anything I've done.

What Does It All Mean?

Over the past couple of days, Joanne Priznivalli, on her blog,  has written excellent essays (and here) on the real meaning of New York's same-sex marriage laws.  I was particularly struck by one point Ms. Priznivalli, who is an attorney, made:  that the law doesn't merely allow same-sex marriage; instead, it makes marriage gender-neutral.  


Why is this an important distinction to make?  Well, as I understand it, the law doesn't merely "give" gays the "privilege" of marriage.  Instead, it says that any two people of the legal age and sound mind can join, for whatever purpose.  What the law really is, if I'm reading Priznivalli in the way she intends to be understood, is an acknowledgment that marriage as a legal institution is not merely about reproduction and continuing the species.  Rather, it's about allowing two people to make the sort of commitment that allows them to be each other's guardians (as, for example, when one of them is lying in a hospital bed and unable to make decisions on his or her own behalf) and to pass on property in the ways each of them sees fit.


I am not, and will probably never be, a lawyer.  However, I can say with confidence that, as a result of my reading and study, I know a bit more history than the average person.  And I know enough history to realize that marriage, as we know it, is actually a fairly recent invention among human institutions.  


Because the Church and State were inseparable in most European societies at least until the Enlightenment, the institution of marriage was codified in a way that not only specified who could be married to whom, and who could inherit what, but also ensured the propagation of the human race.  At a time when people married in their early teen years, had ten kids--of whom four or five might survive into adulthood--and died not long after turning thirty,  concerns about the survival of the human race, particularly in the face of such phenomena as the plague, made sense.  Also, because most of Europe's population shared the same faith (as most of the world's societies were mono-religious), the Church had an interest in seeing the population increase.


Today, almost nobody thinks that the human race is in danger of dying out--unless, of course, we do something stupid, like start a real World War.  If anything, most people would agree that we should slow the growth of, or cut down, the population.  So there is no rationale for allowing only the sort of unions that will help to increase the number of people in the world.


Likewise, the fact that women have claimed our natural rights in much of the world invalidates at least some of the premises behind marriage, as it has been structured.  As Priznivalli and others point out, so-called traditional marriages are based, to some degree or another, on misogyny.  And, really, how can anyone rationalize that when conservatives--whether of the religious variety in Pakistan or the economic type in Britain and Germany--have elected women to lead their countries?  I'd love to see how the same folks who support those women will tell their families, congregations, schools and other communities that women should submit to men.   Will Michelle Bachmann--if, Goddess forbid, she is elected--defer to the wishes of her husband when she makes decisions about national security?


Whatever happens, I don't imagine that the nature of sexual relations within those, or any other, marriages will change.  I suspect that very few couples today have sexual relations solely for the purpose of reproducing.  (Maybe that has been the case for most couples throughout history.)  And, as Priznivalli points out, many older couples stop having sex altogether but remain committed to each other.  So, really, the rationale of enshrining a particular kind of sexual relationship in marriage never had any rational or moral basis.  And that is the very reason why, contrary to the fear-mongering of so-called traditionalists,  marriages based on those kinds of relationships will not be undermined by allowing people to marry whomever they want, regardless of gender.

Is Prometheus What Pandora Would Have Been Had She Been A Man?

Last night the drizzle turned into rain. It became a torrent that raged, with the stiff winds, against my windows. At least I didn't have to go anywhere today. Even so, I did my laundry when the rain let up a while: the laundromat is only half a block from my apartment. The only other person there was the owner, who was fixing something and chatting me up. He is kinda cute.

Anyway...I'm thinking now about a comment "Jeanne Genet" (I love the tag!) made on my posting about my new vagina. She said I overestimate "how comfortable women who were born with the stuff feel about it." Fair enough: There's still so much I am learning, must learn and will probably never learn about being a woman, or at least being a woman as most women experience it. One of the things I just learned, courtesy of "Jeanne," that "women in general are more detached from their 'stuff' than men are, less aware of how it feels to/in them." I may not know much, but I know enough to agree with her when she says she finds that situation "bizarre."

That, by the way, is one of the points Eve Ensler was making with The Vagina Monologues. I guess that's one of the reasons why the play was meaningful to me even before I started my transition, much less my surgery. Even then, I could see that so much was at stake with a woman's knowledge, or lack thereof, about her body. One reason, of course, is that most women are capable of bearing children and the majority will do so. That means that a woman's health affects not only her life, but the life of someone she hasn't seen face-to-face but knows intimately even before he or she arrives in this world.

But even for those women who have no capacity or desire to reproduce, the stakes in knowing or not knowing about their bodies are, in some ways, even greater than they are for men's familiarity or ignorance of their bodies. Perhaps I am saying that now because I have had to pay attention to not only what I have, but what has been created and what has been developing. For one thing, there is the possibility of infections and other issues that women experience but men don't.

Even more important, though, is the way an external factor such as the cleanliness of my bathtub or towels can turn into an internal matter in ways that never could have happened when I had male genitalia. I'm talking, of course, about infections and such that can develop down there. They can retard or even stop the further development of my new organs. That is not merely a cosmetic issue; it can also affect my health in other ways.

I'm guessing that other women experience parallel, if not similar, problems. But knowing one's body is not just a matter of preventative medicine, as important as that is. Rather, I think it is also a way of learning about one's self. I mean, really, how can you not be interested in learning about yourself? Perhaps my perspective is colored by the fact that I have a vagina, and to a great degree, the body I now have, by choice. But I feel that knowing what one's body can do, and respecting its limitations, is a very important way to learn about one's capabilities, or simply to feel more confident and happy. That's really the reason why a lot of people take martial arts classes: Yes, they want to defend themselves. But they also feel so much more confident when they truly understand their bodies' capabilities.

It's funny that when I was in as good condition as some professional athletes--and in better shape than about 95 percent of men my age--I didn't know very much about my body at all. I just pushed it as hard as I could and gave it the nourishment it needed. Tammy once remarked that for someone who was in as good physical condition as I was, I had surprisingly little self-confidence and even less self-esteem.

Now that I think of it, I realize that lack of self-esteem may well be, if not the reason, then at least an important reason, why I didn't accomplish more than I did, given my status at the time as a white male.

But I've digressed a bit. Why is it that women are "more detached from their stuff"? Something tells me that it isn't a lack of desire to know more; I know enough to know it isn't that women are less intelligent (!) than men.

The short answer is, of course, is that most anatomical and medical knowledge comes from a male point of view; even the ways of learning about them are male-centered. The male-centeredness of medical education has been alluded to for decades; it seems that although things are changing, male is still seen as the "default" gender in medicine and that women's medical issues still receive much less attention than those of men. Also, Freudian psychology is notorious for thinking of women as unfinished men, which means, by extension, that a clitoris is an undeveloped penis. (Aside: I'm a living argument against his notion of "penis envy!") It seems to me that the resulting lack of information about women as women can only exacerbate whatever other inducements not to learn, or disincentives to learn, women seem to absorb from their schools, families and cultures.

I grew up with none of that discouragement to learn about my body, much less the prohibitions some religions place on women gaining knowledge about themselves in any way. In other words, I did not grow up with, or carry into my adult life, the idea that I am auxiliary, or an accessory to, some man. That, ironically enough, gave me the means and permission to learn about my body, but it also gave me the luxury of not having to know too much about it. After all, whatever I didn't know, some man--whether or not he was a medical professional--would know.

Plus, I didn't want to know too much about my body because, well, it never felt like my body. Or, at least, it wasn't the body I felt I was supposed to have, much less wanted.

Now I have, at least after some fashion, the kind of body I wanted, and was meant, to have. That, of course, makes me more interested in it. But I also feel, in some way, more protective of her--I'm talking about Ms. V, of course!--than I might otherwise feel because I had to wait until I entered middle age to find her. And now I am experiencing, in some way, another kind of puberty as my vagina and clitoris develop, and the tissues and hair develop around her.

Now I understand, a little bit, why people like Eve Ensler believe that knowledge of their bodies is a political issue. In Western democracies (actual or so-called), women still have less access to knowledge of their bodies than men have about theirs. And we also have less status, overall, than men have. In some countries, such as conservative theocracies (I'm not talking about Muslim ones, now.), women have even less access to such knowledge and to the care we need. Some countries, such as Afghanistan under the Taliban and Saudi Arabia (which exists courtesy of the American taxpayer), take things even further by mandating that women be completely enshrouded and by keeping them out of public life. When you can see the world only through a grille around your eyes, nobody can see--or hear--you. To my admittedly Western and bourgeois eyes, that's a form of living interment. It's no wonder that when such repressive laws were enacted, the state of women's health, not to mention their education and overall well-being, plummeted.

In the so-called advanced countries, most women don't have dominion over much besides their bodies. And even that ownership is tenuous because most of what little information women have about their bodies is from a male point of view. So I can only imagine what life has been like for Afghani or Saudi women, or even women in countries like Ireland until fairly recently.

Anyway...I didn't mean for this to be a treatise or a call to arms. But "Jeanne Genet" made me aware of at least one way in which my experience as a woman is, and most likely always will be, different from that of other women.

What Would Grandma Think of an Escapee? A Parolee?

The other day was my maternal grandmother's birthday. Today is the anniversary of her death. The latter, I realized much later, sent me into one of the deeper troughs of the depression in which I spent about much of my life as Nick.

I can't honestly say that I've mourned her--or anyone else's--death in a while. Perhaps that sounds callous. But for the past few years I have not had a new death to mourn, unless you count Nick. Yes, at times I mourned him because even though I wasn't happy when I was living as him, there were pleasurable moments. And I certainly learned a few things from him. But there were days that it simply didn't seem fair that he lived and he suffered--for my sake. Not only did he not have the opportunity to bask in the light and warmth of his flame, he also did not have the chance to receive gratitude, or any other reward, from me. That simply didn't seem fair!

And that very lack of justice is the reason why mourning becomes, after a while, futile. We all die; almost none of us gets to pick the time or way in which we'll leave this planet. Grandma was so ill that it was all but impossible to determine her precise cause of death. But would it really have mattered which of the complications from her diabetes killed her? To some doctors and forensic scientists, yes. But not to anyone else.

I think about her now and wonder what sort of relationship I could have, or could have had, with her were she still on this planet. If she were, she'd be 96 years old. I can't say I've spent a lot of time with people around that age. Then again, not many other people could say they have, either.

I loved my grandmother because, well, she was my grandmother. But I liked her because she always seemed to know how I felt. Sometimes I think she suspected my gender-identity issues, or had fleeting thoughts that I was gay, or at least not straight. But she knew that I wasn't a "normal" boy: I could see it from the expression on her face when I showed no interest in toy soldiers or erector sets.

What would she think of what I've become? I'm sure it would be difficult for her to understand, as she was certainly a daughter of her place and time. She was also religious, but I've found that a person's religious beliefs don't always determine how or whether a person will accept someone different from him or her self. I've experienced kindness and compassion from some people who worship in institutions run by men who think that what I've done is wrong, or even worthy of a death sentence. (Actually, a lot of people extend what they think their religions say about homosexuality to transgender people when, in fact, the holiest documents of their faith may have said nothing at all about homosexuality or transgenderism.) And someone who has a PhD in gender studies and no discernible religious beliefs ended a friendship we once had.

Somehow I don't think Grandma ever even had a conversation with anyone in which those subjects came up. She probably never knew anyone about whom she could say with certainty that he or she was not heterosexual. That may have had to do with being in a time or place where people were more covert about their lifestyles, much less their inner lives. And it may also have had to do with the fact that, well, she didn't know or didn't care.

I can't deny that there would be times she would have looked at me and seen her grandson. Even if I was an unusual boy, it was as a boy that she knew me. She may have even wished that I weren't trans or that I didn't make the changes I've made.

Then again, she was always so proud of the things I did, whether they were the grades I got in school, becoming an altar boy or simply taking a long bike ride. I think it would make her very happy that I write and have been published and that I teach in a college. I also think she would be even happier to know that I have become someone with whom people talk about their fears and secrets--none of which I've betrayed on this blog! She might not like the fact that some young student got pregnant out of wedlock, but I think she'd be really proud to know that such a student sought me out for advice.

I haven't treated some people very well. But I have made every effort to be better, especially to my parents. And I really would rather deal with people through kindness and gentleness than through hostility and suspicion. Sometimes I'm still on "high alert" or I respond to people as if they're more bigoted than they may actually be. But I'm learning who is and isn't, and simply spending as much of my time and effort as I can with those who aren't, or who simply don't care.

Yes, I would like for Grandma to know who I am now. I think we could've had a nice relationship. But then again, Grandma died at 68 and was--physically as well as emotionally--much, much older than that. Even in comparison to other women of her age, she wasn't healthy. By the end, she was clearly suffering, though she never lost her will to live. At times it was almost painful to see: Her body had become a prison, but she wouldn't dream of escaping.

That's not what I did, though. I finally embraced what was within me. And I was released. I think she might've appreciated that.