A Real Homecoming Peach

Is she a Georgia Peach?  A Southern Belle?

Whatever you want to call her, she's Sage Lovell.  But she's not just any 16-year-old girl.

You see, her classmates in an Atlanta-area high school elected her to represent them in their homecoming court.

That's a big deal for any teenager.  It's an especially big deal in Georgia.  As in other Southern states, people take this stuff as seriously as they take beauty pageants, football (American) and church.

But what makes Ms. Lovell truly special is that she's the first known transgender to be elected to a homecoming court in her state. 

  CBS46 News

CBS46 News

How Do You Say "NIMBY" In Latin?

How do you say “Oops!” in Latin?  

It seems now that the Vatican, in spite of Pope Francis’ pronouncements, is backing off on a relatio that would make the Roman Catholic Church more welcoming—or, at any rate, less excluding—to LGBT people.

I don’t blame Francis for this.  I think he really wants to change the Church, at least to the degree that he can.  He must have anticipated push-back, but I wonder if he realized just how much more conservative some bishops are than he is—or how many such bishops there are.

It’s also hard not to wonder how many of those bishops didn’t read the relatio until the news media reported it, or whether they read it more closely after hearing all of the discussion about it.  

Some of those bishops are pure-and-simple homophobes who simply don’t want anyone but potential breeders in their church.

How do you say “NIMBY” in Latin?

Forgotten--Or Incognito?

Today I’m going to write about something that was, perhaps, inevitable.

About a month ago, I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen in at least fifteen years, or about five years before I started my transition.  We used to teach at the same college; in those days, this person was an adjunct instructor who was working on a PhD.  For a brief time, we shared an office; after that, our offices faced each other but we didn’t see each other much, as we were on different schedules.

I met this instructor at a workshop that was held on another campus of the university system in which both of us teach.  This former colleague of mine is still at the same campus in which we worked together so long ago (or so it seems).  Since we last met, the now-professor finished a PhD, got tenure and is now director of the college’s Writing Center.

Someone with whom I now work introduced us.  I didn’t need it, as the now-director of the Writing Center looks like pretty much the same as in those days, just a bit older.  Besides, this person has some physical characteristics that time could not have altered, and an accent only slightly diminished.

But—need I say this?—I’ve changed a bit since then.  I think I still had a full beard the last time I saw this instructor before last month.  Hormones and age have altered my face and body at least somewhat and, needless to say, I was dressed in a way I never would have dressed—for work, anyway!—in those days.

“Happy to meet you,” my former co-worker said.

“The pleasure is mine.”

It was, really:  this person seemed calmer than—and as gracious as—I recalled.  Still, an unease tinged my pleasure:  Did this person with whom I once shared an office, and a lunch or two, not realize who I was?

On one hand, that was what I hoped.  Meeting me as Justine, and not recalling me as Nick, means that, in at least one way, my transition was as complete as I could have ever hoped it would be.  Plus, it would also mean that my onetime work-mate had forgotten some times when, frankly, I was an asshole.

On another hand, I felt a sadness that came back a few times over the next few days.  I wasn’t thinking about some relationship I could have had with this former colleague:  We were co-workers who were cordial and sometimes friendly to each other—which, I guess, is how such relationships should be.  I had no romantic feelings or sexual attraction and, as far as I could tell, this person didn’t have such longings for me.

Rather, seeing someone from my past who, apparently, only saw me in the present got me to thinking and gave me some flashbacks.  I couldn’t help but to wonder what it would have been like to have lived as Justine then, or before.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have worked at that college or, for that matter, in any college.  Would I have been one of those young women who were among the first in their offices, boardrooms, courtrooms or other workplaces, as many—who were around my own age—were in my youth?  Would I have become the writer, the artist, I had wanted—and still want—to be? 

Or would I have been some guy’s wife and the mother of his kids (some of them, anyway)?  If so, what kind of man would he have been?  Or would I have run off, by myself or with another, to live or work in some “womyn’s” collective?

Given the kind of person I—and the way the world—was, perhaps things wouldn’t have been that good.  Perhaps I would have spent some years walking the street where I would die.  Then again, I could just as easily have died on that same street—or some other—at someone else’s hands, or from bottles or needles.

For all I know, I might have been the colleague of that person I bumped into last month.  And we still might be working together in that same place, and I might be a professor—or have another position and title.

Of course, we never can know what kind of person we might have been.  But seeing someone I hadn’t seen in a long time got me to thinking about it.  What if she had recognized me?  What if she did?

October Is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

October is Domestic Violence Awareness month.

The issue has received a lot of publicity because of Ray Rice.  The running back's contract with the Baltimore Ravens was suspended by the team not long after the National Football League suspended him for beating his then-fiancée (now wife) into unconsciousness. 

Of course, it took a lot of public outcry and pressure from sponsors to get Roger Gooddell, the NFL commissioner, to act on his case.  He claimed not to have known about the video on which Rice uses his spouse-to-be as a punching bag in an Atlantic City casino elevator at the time TMZ posted it online, in March.

Still, Rice's case got more attention than most other incidents of domestic violence, in part because of his celebrity.  Too many other incidents of such abuse are never reported, and too many others are simply not taken seriously when they are reported. Or, they are mis-handled by law enforcement authorities.

One reason for these problems has to do with perceptions and attitudes about domestic violence. For the most part, there are still many people--including, incredibly, women--who think that the woman/girl must have done something to "provoke" the man/boy.  Such provocation can include simply not pleasing him, whether sexually or in some other way. 

Another reason why domestic violence isn't dealt with appropriately is that it's still seen as a man-on-woman problem.  To be sure, the vast majority of such cases involve males abusing females in one way or another.  But new research has found that there's LGBT partners beat and otherwise abuse each other at roughly the same rate as heterosexual couples.   Sometimes law enforcement officials don't take their complaints seriously or at all; even when a conscientious police officer tries to help and records the complaint, little more can be done because the couple's union isn't legally recognized.

And, I can tell you from personal experience that some policemen (and -women) simply think trans people are not worth helping because, they believe, we're all sex workers (or sexual predators) and that our status somehow gives our partners the right to abuse us.  Finally, too many in law enforcement--and even in the so-called helping and healing professions--still think that if it's not physical, it's not abuse.  It took me three visits to my local precinct before anyone would hear my ordeal of having endured over 11,000 text messages, as well as "anonymous" false complaints to my former employer and the city, and e-mails falsely accusing me of sexual crimes, from Dominick.

Of course, he will never think of himself as an abuser.  It's because of people like him that we need anything that will raise awareness of what Domestic (i.e., Intimate Partner) Violence (i.e., abuse) actually is.

Where's The Justice?

An old joke says that examples of "oxymorons" include "dietetic candy", "business ethics" and "military intelligence".

To that list I would add "military justice", at least in matters of domestic and sexual violence, and in hate crimes.

Perhaps you think I'm embittered by my experience of having been sexually assaulted during a college ROTC training weekend.  It took me 33 years to talk about it for the first time, as I did last summer.  To be fair, at that time, very few people went public with accounts of sexual violence committed against them in any arena. Still, I think it says something about the culture of the military that I knew, even then, that if I said anything about what had been done to me, I'd probably be in more trouble than the perpetrators.  In fact, I even knew somehow that they'd get off scot-free because they were my superiors.


It is from such experience, and with the knowledge of other incidents of rape and other sexual (and domestic) violence that I lament the US Marines' retaining custody of one of their own, Joseph Scott Pemberton.  He is accused of killing transgender woman Jennifer Laude Sueselbeck in the Phillipines, where he was stationed.  

Filipino activists want him turned over to their criminal justice system.  I can't blame them:  The US occupation of their islands includes countless cases of abuse against ordinary Filipinos and, especially, Filipinas.  And they know that their overlords (i.e., the top of the American military command chain) have a way of covering up crimes and abuses committed by their cronies as well as those who serve them.   And Pemberton, if he's charged, will probably claim "transgender panic" or some such thing (which, by the way, is what Dominick tried to do when I filed for a restraining order against him).

You might say that such is an emotional response to the crime.  All right, I'll stick to pure-and-simple jurisprudence (at least, as I understand it:  I am not a lawyer).  If a civilian, or anyone in a non-combat situation, kills someone in a country other than his own, he would (and should) be tried by the local authorities.  So, why shouldn't Mr. Pemberton, if he is guilty of the crime.  He was in uniform but, to my knowledge, we're not at war with the Phillipines.

I say:  Hand him over!

 

Trans Woman Attacked In Bushwick

Over the past few years, as Williamsburg has become trendy and pricey, Bushwick has become Brooklyn's new haven for hipsters.  

Unfortunately, it also seems to have become a haven for haters.


On Sunday night, a trans woman was attacked on the corner of Bushwick Avenue and Halsey Street.  She was walking with a friend when four men approached them and demanded to know what they were doing in the neighborhood.

When she replied, the thugs realized she was trans.  They beat her with 2X4s while calling her "faggot".

It was the second anti-LGBT attack in the neighborhood in two weeks.


I can recall a time when it was risky for anyone who wasn't from the neighborhood--and for some people who were--to walk those streets at night.  It wasn't that long ago:  I was pelted with eggs on one occasion and, on another, a group of young men tried to stop me at an intersection when I was riding my bike through the neighborhood.

Back then, I was still living as a man.  I even had a beard and broad shoulders that seemed even wider next to my waist, which was smaller.  Most people took me as a straight, or at least a bisexual-leaning-toward-straight, man.  I can only imagine what it would have been like if I had begun my transition.

The neighborhood was dangerous for LGBT people in the same way any area that was ravaged by crime and poverty:  People whose existences were precarious saw any deviation from accepted notions about gender and sexuality as a threat.  There are still people--young men, mainly--with such fears who live in the neighborhood. And there are others who see LGBT people as gentrifiers, or the "canaries in the coal mine" who precede them.  In other words, they think we're going to "take over" their neighborhood and kick them out.

Truth is, most of the LGBT people in Bushwick--More are living there than most people realize!--are there for the same reasons as the folks I've mentioned:  It's still a relatively affordable neighborhood.  One of the undeniable facts about the LGBT world--especially trans people--is poverty.  For every one those conspicuously-consuming gay men living in Chelsea penthouses, there are dozens, if not hundreds, of trans people who are living below the poverty line--or who are homeless.

Now, of course, the trans woman and gay man who suffered bias attacks in Bushwick during the past two weeks may not have been attacked by denizens of the neighborhood.  Because those "in the know" know there's a substantial LGBT population in the neighborhood, it's not hard to imagine that haters from other neighborhoods, or even from outside of this city, might go to such a neighborhood during "hunting season":  the weekend.   That's the reason why so many attacks occur in Chelsea, Clinton, the Village and Jackson Heights.

Whoever the perps were, my thoughts and prayers go out to the trans woman and gay man who had the misfortune to meet up with haters (read: cowards) on a Bushwick street.

 

 

Gratified, But Not Convinced, By The Latest From The Vatican

"Homosexuals have gifts and qualities to offer the Christian community: are we capable of welcoming these people, guaranteeing to them a further space in our communities? Often they wish to encounter a Church that offers them a welcoming home."

So far, sounds good, doesn't it?  The source of that quote might come as a bit of a surprise:  a relatio from the Vatican.

Given that the current Pope has said things like "If someone is gay and seeks the Lord with good will, who am I to judge?", one could be forgiven for believing that the Roman Catholic church--in which I grew up--might become a more welcoming place for LGBT people.

What is commonly forgotten is that the Pope's quote was taken somewhat out of context:  He was not talking about according loving same-sex couples or people who live by the gender of their spirit the same respect within the Roman Catholic church as cisgender heterosexual couples.  Rather, he was responding to a question about gay priests who remain celibate.  The relatio quoted at the beginning of this post was talking about the same issue, and other gay people who wish to serve the church while remaining celibate.

All of those conservative Catholic groups who fear their church is losing its grip on its "traditional" values have nothing to fear.  As the National Catholic Reporter tells us, more actual and suspected LGBT people have been fired, not had their contracts renewed or simply were pushed out of their jobs in other ways,  by Catholic institutions this year--with two and a half months to go--than in any year since 2008. 

Moreover, five major American dioceses (Cincinnati, Cleveland, Columbus (OH), Honolulu and Oakland (CA)) have revised teacher contracts with "morality clauses" that ban teachers from supporting same-sex relationships in their personal or professional lives.  I'm not a  lawyer, but I suspect that such clauses could be interpreted to mean that a teacher could be fired for accepting a gay couple's invitation to dinner at their home.

Now, to be fair, I don't mean to denigrate individual Catholics.  Many--including my mother and my closest friend--have shown me kindness when other people--including someone with a PhD in Gender Studies--didn't.  Also, I have entered Roman Catholic church buildings and encountered people who greeted me warmly or simply didn't notice me. 

However, for all of the good PR the current Pope is giving the Church, I don't expect that it will welcome LGBT people as equal members, let alone as priests or nuns, during my lifetime.  That is the reason why, after realizing how much of a spiritual journey my gender transition was for me, I have joined an Episcopal congregation, where one of the priests asked me to teach Sunday school.

The Economist Gets It

This week, The Economist published an editorial that left me pleasantly surprised.

I often read the magazine simply because it's more literate and has a broader horizon than most other magazines.  Their book and theatre reviews are among the best.  However, I don't always agree with their political and economic views, which always seemed to the right in a Thatcherist (if not Reaganesque) kind of way.  

As this week's editorial rightly points out, there seems to be a growing divide in this world when it comes to LGBT rights.  Now most western European countries, and some in Latin America and Asia--along with Canada and nineteen (as of this writing) US states--have legalized civil unions or gay marriage.  And those countries, along with others, have struck down old laws that criminalized homosexual acts.

On the other hand, some countries are developing ever-more-repressive policies toward LGBT people.  Those countries, mostly in Africa and the Muslim world, are--to some degree--reacting against the increasing tolerance of the West (and Far East).  But Russia's anti-gay policies cannot be laid solely at the feet of Vladimir Putin:  Polls indicate that about three in every four Russians disapprove of homosexuality.

Could the reaction of such countries be, in some way, a tacit admission that the world is changing?  Could they be left behind in other social areas, as well as economics, if they don't follow the rest of the world?  The editorial seems to imply as much:  In those countries, as in the rest of the world, the population--particularly the young--are becoming more urbanized and educated.  And, of course, they use the Internet.  So, perhaps, old prejudices and taboos could simply fade away as those younger people take their places in the world.

Like Being A Nazi--Or In The KKK

"Coming out" is just like declaring that you're a Nazi, a member of the Ku Klux Klan--or a rapist.

At least, that's what the late General Carl E. Mundy believed.  In 1993, not long after Bill Clinton was elected to his first term, the General--who was then Commandant of the Marine Corps--and the President met with Vice President Al Gore and other White House officials to discuss the issue of gays in the military.  

Not long after that meeting, the Clinton administration would implement "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", a policy that, it seemed, made no one happy. (Some might say that's the definition of a compromise.)  To be fair, it might have been the best anyone could do.  After all, Mundy was not alone among the military's top brass in his opposition to letting gays serve, and the military probably could not continue its old policy of banning gays outright.  

DADT was finally repealed in 2010.  

This note from the 1993 meeting was among 10,000 pages of notes released yesterday by the William J. Clinton Presidential library:

There Goes The Neighborhood

What do they mean by this?

 

On Dawn And Mother-Daughter Relationships

Another dawn ride in the Sunshine State.  Really, given the heat and humidity, it really is the best time to pedal.  Plus, my parents live just far enough from the ocean that I can start just before sunrise and, within a few minutes, be treated to scenes like this:

That, from a place called Hammock.  And this from, appropriately, Painter's Hill:

At that time of morning, one finds more surfers or fishers than swimmers.  (Leave it to me to be, as always, a minority--both as a swimmer and cyclist!)  When you're up before most other people and throw yourself at a great expanse that seems like infinity, it's hard not to wonder about the meaning of it all:

As it turns out, the woman in the second photo was watching her daughter:

As my mother is not, and never has been, a cyclist, surfer, swimmer or fisher, we have a different mother-daughter relationship.  It was still more than welcome at the end of today's ride, in which I managed to beat the midday heat and afternoon rain.

No Bicycles Were Harmed (At Least, Not Physically) In Making This Movie

I am going to make a confession:  I simply could not get through Fifty Shades of Grey.

I tried. I really tried.  You see, I am not at all averse to erotic fiction.  And, every once in a while, I need a mindless diversion.

It's not as if I was expecting FSG to be the next Lady Chatterley's Lover or even Histoire d'O.  But--call me a snob--I have some standards when it comes to writing.  FSG started off well below them and sank with every page I managed to read.  

How bad is it?  How can anyone, with a straight face, write or publish a novel that has both of these sentences:  "Her curiosity oozes through the phone" and "My mom is oozing contrition"?  Worse, those aren't the only passages containing some form of the verb "to ooze".  The only time someone should use any form of that word more than once in a piece of writing is when he or she is writing about a volcanic eruption.

That's not even the worst offense I saw in what I managed to read.

I don't think I have to tell you I won't be seeing the movie.  

Apparently, a trailer for the flick, which is scheduled to be screened--when else?--next Valentine's Day, is on the web.  Someone named "Christine B." who has a stronger stomach than mine or is getting paid for her troubles, posted the one and only scene that might even be mildly interesting.  That's because it features the only credible character, if you will"  a bicycle.

Gay Rights = Loss Of Religious Freedom. Haven't We Heard That One Before?

New Orleans is often called "The Big Easy."  While that nickname might depict life--at least some aspects of it--in the Crescent City, it doesn't apply to the state--Louisiana--of which it is a part.

Interestingly, New Orleans extended its anti-discrimination laws to protect gender identity and expression in 1998, four years before New York City managed to do the same.  And, of course, New Orleans was known to have a lively gay culture and "scene"--even if much of it was underground--long before it held its first "official" Pride event in 1978.  

Even with such an environment, there were reminders--some of them truly awful--that the "N'awlins" is indeed located in Dixie.  On 24 June 1973, the UpStairs Lounge, club that provided meeting space for the city's first LGBT-affirming congregation, was set ablaze in an arson attack. Thirty-two people died as a result.  Rodger Dale Nunez, the only suspect arrested for the attack, escaped from psychiatric custody and was never again picked up by the police, even though he spent a lot of time hanging around in the French Quarter neighborhood surrounding the UpStairs Lounge.  He committed suicide in November 1974.  Six years later, the state fire marshal's office. lacking other leads, closed the case.

I mention this to give you an idea of what a formidable task some folks in Baton Rouge, the state's capital, are trying to do:  pass a "Fairness Ordinance" banning discrimination against gays and lesbians in their city. Not surprisingly, it's meeting with fierce opposition from people who claim that passing such an ordinance will inhibit their religious freedom?

How many times have we heard that argument?  How many more times must we hear it before everyone realizes how bogus it is?

Sunday Sailing

I admit this photo hasn't much to do with gender identity or any related issue. I took it on Point Lookout, one of the places to which I rode my bike last week.

But somehow it seems right for a Sunday afternoon in summer.  And I suppose it has something like composition and a balance of tones in it.  Even if it doesn't, I hope you like it.

What Do They Mean By A "Transgender Tipping Point"?

Sometimes I despair over National Public Radio.  While it's certainly more balanced (or, al least, broadcasts fewer out-and-out falsehoods) than right-wing radio talk shows or Fox News, it's still, shall we say, lacking in cojones sometimes.  

But this exchange between Dr. Julie Eastin, Mara Keisling and host Diane Rehm looks as if it might have been interesting, even lively.  I'm not exactly sure of what Ms. Rehm means by a "tipping point." I'm not even sure she knows.  But I have little doubt that the editors of Time magazine hadn't the foggiest notion of what they were saying. I think they just liked the alliteration:  Transgender Tipping Point.

Anyway, I give credit to Ms. Rehm for bringing Ms. Keisling and Dr.Eastin on her show, and doing what seemed to be a good job of moderating.

Two Ships Didn't Pass Or Collide. One Swerved..

Late yesterday afternoon, I was riding my bike in another part of Queens, a few miles from my apartment.  Conditions were nearly perfect:  a little less warm, and a lot less humid, than we can normally expect at this time of year.  High clouds swirled around the sun; a light breeze twirled leaves and petals.

I stopped, not because I was tired, but to immerse myself in the wonder of the day.  (Make what you will of that statement; at one time in my life, I would have sneered at someone who made it.) Also, an old favorite pizzeria was nearby.  Somehow I felt a slice would be a worthwhile deviation (i.e., cheat) from the kinda-sorta diet.  

So I bought a slice—plain, old-school Neapolitan, with tangy slightly acidic sauce and oozing, almost unctuous cheese—and a small bottle of San Pellegrino.  Then I crossed the street to a triangle “park” fenced off from the three streets that intersected.  I sat in one of the pastel-colored metal park chairs and rested my paper plate and bottle on a matching table painted in Pepto-Bismol (or Mary Kay) pink. 

Although I savored every mouthful of that slice of pizza, I finished it before I drank half of the bottle of Italian fizzy water.  I sinuously sipped from the curvaceous green bottle and languorously crossed my legs.

All right, any sinuousness or languorosness (Are those real words?) was unintentional on my part.  Or unconscious, at any rate.  That is, until I noticed, from the corner of my eye, a man eyeing me.

Much to my surprised, he walked over to me.  Even more to my surprise, he tried to start a conversation.

“You are a beau-ti-ful woman.”

I pretended not to hear him.  But he repeated himself, moving closer:  He was even less convinced by my pretense than I was.

He must have been at least a decade older than I am.  I didn’t mind that:  After my experience with a certain younger man, and one before him, I have come to appreciate the virtues of age.  

But I am still not ready—or, to tell the truth, willing—to acknowledge the virtues of men, or a man, at least in a certain kind of relationship.  He wasn’t bad-looking, at least for what I thought to be his age.  His green eyes—a color somewhere between sage and olive—refracted a wisdom borne of experience and reflected a vision of his own mortality.  I didn’t tell him that, but he told me I have beautiful eyes.

He was trying to escape, not merely from his loneliness, but from gazing into the abyss and seeing nothing—not the wife he lost to cancer, to the children he never had or even himself. Or perhaps he saw only himself. I cannot help anyone confront that, or even to turn away.

Perhaps he understood that. Or perhaps he simply realized that, while I thought he was nice enough, I simply could not feel about him the way he claimed to feel about me.  I think he also knew that I’m too emotionally weary, or simply old, to have a fling with him or anyone else.  It’s not even that I’m looking for commitment, necessarily:  Actually, he might have wanted that.  

I simply wished him a good evening.  It was all I could do.