RBW 10
Ab-Fab Last week was one of my favorite Indian festivals; Navaratri, The nine nights of the Goddess. I don’t have space to go into what it all means, but the point you need to know is that it celebrates the Divine Feminine, and as one of the newest girls on the team, I’m all in. Finally. So, there are lotsa ways Mylove and I celebrate this sacred time in our house, but one of the simplest is mere “remembrance,” a yogic practice of holding someone or something sacred in your heart and mind and allowing the blessings of the memories and thoughts to reverberate through your entire being. You can do this in even the most mundane of your daily activities, turning each one into a sacred ritual, rich with meaning and experience. One morning, I was using my ab(dominal) wheel and truly relishing each time I rolled out into a pranam (a reverential bow) and realizing that I was actually doing it toward our MahaLaxmi Puja, the altar in our bedroom devoted to the Goddess of abundance, wealth, and beauty, and smiling inside that I am that Goddess. It hit me, I’m checking off all the “never woulds, never coulds and never shoulds” almost every day since I came out. There is now, nothing out of my reach or forbidden to me – if I wanna cry at movies, call everyone “honey,” wear an evening gown, go window shopping at Sephora, or be President of the United States, now I can, because I’m a woman! Now, those of you who’ve been with me here at “Raised By Wolves” since the beginning, know that I wrestle with the sublime to the ridiculous almost every day. And anyone who knows Alexandra Billings knows she’s set the bar very high about what and where we place our attention. But you also know that I’m going thru my second puberty and reveling in the simplest freedoms like wearing lipstick and lace, and any of the other previously forbidden fruits. I am the biggest cheerleader for “a little extra sumpin’- sumpin” a touch more bling, a bit more sparkle… you might not only live once, but this is the only version of you you’ll get this go around and, as many have said, life’s too short for bad coffee, no lipstick, or pulling back for any reason. We now return you to our regularly scheduled blog… I’m using the ab wheel, remember? I was really feeling the deeeeeeep stretch of each pranam, and wallowing in the glory of really feeling, not only comfortable in my skin, but great in it. Here I was, 45 pounds lighter and yet waaaaay stronger and fit and maybe, just maybe, able to wear a… bikini soon. It’s the first time I’ve ever, ever dared allowed myself to even allow that thought to form… As I looked up from one more amazing, deep stretch I saw my long manicured nails (rocking a rather bold mother-of-pearl finish) and giggling with glee that my hands looked so… so… …and it hit me, or rather rumbled from deep inside of the bottom of the deepest vein that runs to the depth of the physicality of my being… an earthquake of joy and love and gratitude. I am a woman… I… made… it. Deep wracking sobs kept rum-tumbling out, over and over and over. I’m talking snot-bubbles, burning eyes, the whole shootin’ match… not even trying to avoid the drool pooling on my yoga mat, I let go of the wheel and curled into the fetal position. I felt my subtle being rising above my fetal self. “Look at me, I’m crying that deep cry that I’ve waited for an entire lifetime!” “Wait, what are we doing out here? Don’t wanna miss this… get back in there and let go, girl!” “Is this what they would call deep soul cleansing? (And where did phrase come from anyway? Some cheap novel?)” “NO! It’s what they say when… what are you doing?” “Shut-up! You’re missing this!” “Right, good idea, okay, I’m heading back in there…” “Well, stop talking and go!” And then, I was able to really let go. And I swan dived backward into a waterfall of tears… and it was… amazing. I have no idea how long I was there, I can only mark time by the river of tears spilling from my mat to the floor. When I finished, I stood up and staggered upstairs and looked at Marcy like I’d both stepped out of a torrential downpour and a two-hour mediation… What happened to you? So I told her. The physical changes of gender transition are sometimes the only part that anyone seems to care about. I’ve had my theories about why this is, for others, and for me. Those are the measuring sticks for the “one little victories” that literally track the progress of all of the hard work, and I mean hard (oh, honey, just one of the procedures would horrify the strongest of the strong), that is now, part of my daily life. Yes, it’s painful. Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, it’s… worth it. Once you begin to understand the mind-body-heart connection as deeply as we do, you’ll understand why this is one path of the journey that many of us have to take. It’s the only way to remove the thorn that’s festered in our psyche for most of our lives. But that’s not what any of this is really about for any of us. It’s an odd lot. Our maturity gets kicked into hyper drive as our bodies step into a wormhole of our second puberty. Yes, it’s like Syfy. And there’s nothing that can prepare you for what that feels like. But it is what we signed up for. And learning to dance with biology while trying to be who we’re supposed to be: both true to ourselves, as we are true to the society that hates us, doesn’t understand us, objectifies us, reviles us, AND loves us, supports us, is intrigued by us, learns from us, is inspired by us… makes daily life a non-stop adventure. And the who we are is, as Alexandra reminds us, the most important and interesting to talk about. This is the number one topic around our house, lately. And Marcy and I are continually looking at all the things that have changed in the last two years. Now, before we proceed, many people refer to this as “Scottie’s transition,” which is inaccurate for a number of reasons – chief of all, as a married woman of close to 30 years, it’s our transition if anything. But we all like to have something to mark time with, so just between us girls, we call it “since vitamin E” (for estrogen). This doesn’t connote when I came out because the chaos and false starts that all crashed into one another at that time have blurred the start of it all, except, of course, the ending of that chapter of our life and the beginning of now. “Since vitamin E” marks, instead, the beginning of feeling good, feeling right, feeling like me. Truly me. The me without an asterisk. The me without apologies, compromises or masks. We always joke that, after almost 3 decades together (29 years, last April 29th, for the mathemagicians out there), it’s about time some of those little annoyances that plague every couple, were gone by now. But something (stubbornness?) in both of us, keeps many of them alive. Not so, however, on Vitamin E. The other day, Marcy came out of the bathroom with tears in her eyes, “Oh my God!” I asked, “Mylove, what’s wrong?” She shook her head and stammered, “Not only did you replace the toilet paper, but you put it on so the sheet comes over the top!” Vitamin E. And before you ask, the toilet seat is always down in our house (but it has been since my childhood, a mom and three sisters in the house, I wasn’t stupid back then either). I put out the trash cans the other night, and when I came back in, Marcy was thunderstruck. “Oh, my god! You were quiet!” I was a bit bewildered, apparently, the “dude” that used to live with her (some arrogant schmuck named Scott) thought it didn’t matter if you made a ruckus late at night in the neighborhood. How inconsiderate… Vitamin E. I’m kidding, sorta. In a marriage or long time, committed relationship, theses seemingly inconsequential events are the shorthand for decades-long debates and decisions. And as funny as those things are, the real changes since Vitamin E to our relationship are subtler, yet incredibly powerful. As a woman, I feel every change of the winds well before we get around a bend. And tho’ I’d love to think I was always attuned to Mylove’s frequencies, Vitamin E has cranked up the volume, and I can sense her shifting moods from three area codes away. But importantly, I know why her moods shifted in the first place, why it’s a big deal, what the ramifications could be, and most importantly, I know what is necessary for me to do with all of this. (Hey boys, take note here, sometimes it’s nothing). Now, am I saying that Vitamin E is like sapho juice, giving us increased superpowers? Thufir Hawat would say heightened potential (Dune anyone? Anyone?). But for me, who’s first and only natural dose came in utero, the reintroduction into my life of “E” has shut down the panic-stricken screaming that I had to strive for decades to become deaf to, the pleading and, eventually, faint gnawing whisper that came from being imprisoned in someone else’s life. It vanished almost the moment estrogen returned to my veins. And with it, the entire security apparatus built to contain the prisoner’s mere existence was also gone – freeing up about 70 percent of available energy resources. So, call it operating (finally) at full capacity. But, even more than that, I have a clear view and no pebbles in the fertile soil that is my consciousness. My petals are fully opened to the sun’s rays, and now I have so much more to give to the one I love. And so much more to receive. And that’s the biggest change in our relationship. We both are so much more there for each other. We, who were already a model of a loving marriage, no longer are pretending we don’t, or can’t, understand each other. We have always been speaking not only the same language, but the same exact dialect. But, I could never admit that before, and Marcy could never pretend to understand. So, if we suddenly stop making sense to each other, we each know it’s because we won’t understand each other. And that’s a horse of a different color altogether. Luckily, neither of us has, especially since vitamin E, had the patience, desire or tolerance to waste whatever precious time we have in each other’s arms and hearts, especially if it’s because of any self-inflicted stupidity. And I guess, I’d like to think I’ve always been that kinda girl. But then again… … I did use to put the toilet paper on backward… just for fun. I said, used to. Okay, I resisted for as long as I could (unless you count the few Facebook shares I could not keep my sharing finger from selecting), but I have to take to the keys to ask…
…how will we heal? The political climate is only the mirror of a country struggling to “grow –up,” and we’re as conflicted as a teenager on a Friday night. (Trust me, I know as I enter full force into a second puberty – it ain’t pretty!) It’s a time when we have cast off the social decorum and intelligent ways of communicating that have, for better or worse, gotten us this far as a country and a society. Somehow the gloves are off and we all, willingly, with full intention ,say things, print things, infer things, and worst of all, SHOUT things that we want to be incendiary, not caring if they are accurate, and actually hope that they will hurt… …without any thought of the consequences. I’m as guilty as the next girl. I look to score points, like a boxer peppering my opponent with body shots to “weaken” him so that my real point will land the knock-out punch. I will, with the right turn of a phrase, stop my opponents in their tracks, the blazing light of truth will cut through their stupidity and ignorance, and they will not only cede their argument, but will change their entire opinion and come to my side to work for the greater good of all. At least that’s how it looks in my head. And that’s what I tell my heart when it protests about my pugilistic ways. And that’s what I shout into my pillow to justify being, well, just like “them.” Rats, and I was doing so well… I know I may look like a bright-eyed teenager (rose colored glasses anyone?), but I am, and have been, a media professional for over thirty years. My stock in trade is not only my opinion but the country’s various opinions. It’s how we who are selling the dog food* have to play. You don’t sell TV to yourself, after all. If we did, would we really have ever canceled Rocky & Bullwinkle? (*“selling the dog food” is a term that refers to the fact that TV is just a medium for selling consumer products. Advertiser-based, it is ruled by the companies that sell to consumers, so don’t believe it one second – there s no such thing as liberal media bias it’s the biggest line of horsesh*t ever sold. Anything that is too controversial for Bob & Betty Sixpack in middle America, won’t ever be said on TV.) Most of my work (with the exception of hanging out with surfers for 5 years for ESPN’s “Surfer Magazine”) has been “red state – red meat.” In other words, it’s the kind of stuff that is most likely to air on the flat-screens at Hooters – testosterone-laden dude food that goes down best with beer, bravado and bros. So, I can, without any apology or hesitation, say I have studied our great nation’s zeitgeist from the inside out. Call it survival or just knowing your audience, but I know why those on the red side of the equation want so badly to win. And I chose the word “badly” by design. This “win at all costs” isn’t even appropriate in football (“inflate gate,” anyone? – Everyone who wasn’t from Boston cried foul for months afterward) business (Wells Fargo for 5200, please) or religion (let’s not go here, shall we?). So why is it being done so badly in the battle for the beltway? Yes, I hear you saying, “But, throughout our history, it’s always been this way, we have always fought tooth and nail for “our guy” (hmmm…). But let’s be real, even the Republicans didn’t think this would ever get this bad. This is bad bad, Robert Altman satirical bad, weak night on SNL bad, nobody will ever buy this, bad. WTF? Fair disclosure, I have had a slightly cynical outlook on politics since high school. Ever since I, as a starry-eyed junior who earnestly ran for senior class president (after earning my stripes as ASB president), was told by the out-going seniors that they were going to vote instead for my opponent because they were graduating and thought it was a good joke to leave the other guy in charge. (Sorry, Lawrence that’s what it was.) I learned that power rules, the best candidate doesn’t always win, and life isn’t fair. That politics is a game… and second place sucks. So what did I do? Did I quit? Sit-out my senior year with my arms folded? No. I got schooled, so I was going to be the schooler. I became a nasty, backroom politicking, power-broker myself, and the next year got my girl into the oval office. I used the same tactics that brought me down the year before. I harnessed the out-going seniors, those who wouldn’t even be around to live with their decision, but I appeased my conscience by knowing I had used my powers for good. But that was high school. And we weren’t playing for keeps. Even so, why do I think that, after all, these years, after three wars (four?) and black lives matter, and HB2, and an obstructionist congress, and gerrymandering, that it would be different in this election? Because it has to be. At no time since I’ve been able to vote, have I ever had my life literally on the line. When I first got the right to vote, I got a mean package deal. In a scary twofer, I also had registered for the draft (remember Ben Sasway?) because the war machine was still running at top speed and I was of the age to feed it. Now, before I go any further, my TV fans know (and you should too) that I actively support our men and women who defend our country. (This isn’t just slapping a bumper sticker on my car kinda support – I put my money where my hiring mouth was, and made it a practice to bring returning vets onto my crews.) There are obvious differences between being drafted and enlisting. It’s another thing that makes our country great. We all get to choose how we serve. But this election season, the vitriol has been the epitome caustic. My rights have never been on the line before. There’s states that I literally can’t go. This is freakin’ America! Are you kidding me? There are systematic and well funded efforts to pass LAWS that make it legal to discriminate against me and my LGBTQ brethren. Here. In the good ‘ol U.S. of A. And the right is so blinded by their rage that will say anything, do anything, hurt anyone, to seize this power. And without also making a false equivalency, the left is not entirely blameless, giving as good as they get, we all take off the gloves and go toe-to-toe without anyone caring… …where we go from here. How will we reconcile with each other after whoever wins in November? Will we be able to ignore the cuts and bruises we all suffered on the way to this decision? Will those who have spent the last 18 months with veins bulging in their necks and blood on their tongues, actually be able to put all that aside to work together? How could we? It’s not like elections past. The Republicans tried to distance themselves but it was too late, they already sold their souls and the devil came a’callin’. Doesn’t matter that, to stand by their boy, they have to compromise every value this once proud party had, they’ll have to soldier on and take a bullet for the team, merely to save face with the largest donors… …all at the expense of our country. And I’m not going to pretend to present a fair and balanced view here. Hillary is a President. Her opponent is nothing more than a spoiler – but the spoiled of that war, is a legalized mandate that it is okay to discriminate against the LGBTQ community, it’s okay to roll back women’s rights, It’s okay to mandate over woman’s bodies. Misogyny is okay. Racism is expected. Hatred is a tool. Xenophobia, the law of the land. There is no pretending that this is the last gasp of white male privilege. There is no getting around the fact that the great white hope is willing to trade fear for substance, blame for responsibility, and hatred for patriotism. The army of apologists and surrogates sell out themselves and this country every time they step in front of a microphone or camera. They know it, and nobody is smart enough to pull up on the stick to get out of their own nosedives. How will any of them look themselves in the mirror after November? How will any of us look each other in the eye and go forward? We’ve seen this movie before. We just lived through eight years of an obstructionist congress standing on principle to block anything that moved in the name of “gamesmanship.” But this go-around even the Republican leadership can’t hide their sins, and the fact that they can’t control Godzilla now that they’ve blasted it with the atomic ray gun, has us all bracing for impact. Every morning they have to peek between their fingers at the latest headlines to see which is the latest “Republican value” to die an unholy death. Their boy is apparently settling a golf bet to take them all the way down, and apparently there’s no bottom in sight: not defrauding students with his fake university, nor faking charitable donations, nor illegally going against a federal embargo with a communist Cuba and lying about it to Cuban-American patriots, not defiling a beauty Queen, insulting a Judge, spewing hate toward an entire country and an entire religion, and just about anything that isn’t white (except Hillary), not taking bribes from Russia, nor bribing a state’s attorney general. Not even referring to this country as a “third world country,” is enough for his basket to hit bottom. And don’t get me started about being “smart” enough to not pay taxes. Nothing is low is enough. Nothing apparently is too far for them to ever cry, “uncle.” This is what happens when you sell your soul. But there I go judging again. I honestly have no idea how I will look any of my friends who are pretending that their vote for that guy isn’t a vote against me. I have no idea how Republicans will ever really believe that they will have any shred of credibility left. It’s an amazing phenomenon, really. Just like those high school seniors who wouldn’t be around to reap what they had sown. I’m wondering where all of these people think any of us are going. They’ll have us on the day after the election. It’s not like half of the country suddenly disappears; and it’s not like any of the festering wounds will maybe ever heal. So what then, is the answer? We can’t close Pandora’s box, we can’t put that genie back in its beer bottle. We can’t kill Godzilla; we can only pray he goes back into the sea. We are already different as a country. Mainstream media has lost all credibility. Our establishment’s pillars are crumbling. We are so polarized that there’s no such thing anymore as a “healthy exchange of ideas.” There’s only us and them. No we. Will it change in November? Will we have learned anything positive through this all? Will the ideas of reform and change that were brought up produce anything other than even more talking points? Will the racial divides that have been exposed get spanned with bridges of understanding, or will the disenfranchised continue to rally around a champion that will do nothing more than knock down those bridges with the spray of hate and fear? We’re all holding our breath… Hard right turn.
I'm on a plane flying out of Burbank airport. It's Wednesday, September 21st. We shot down the runway heading west and as we lifted into the sky we took a graceful sweeping, high banking turn to the right and headed east... I'm heading to Arizona. I'm a blender of emotions. Joy. Excitement. Tears. Fears. I'm not turning back; I'm heading in the right direction. I'm hours away from talking to a surgeon. My surgeon. For my surgery. Yes, surgery. The surgery. That surgery. Gender Confirmation Surgery. I am writing this in real time. This is a day… well, it’s a day I never thought would come. I’m not using those words lightly. This isn’t a day long looked for, a day, like Christmas, graduation, or even my wedding day. No. This is a day that I never believed could ever come. As the cabin pressure clutches my head, I feel a need to sleep (the natural Madden safety “override” when things are beyond intense), but I’m also driven to document my state--heck yes, this is big decision. Mylove and I just gave a lecture that took extra time to make this politically/emotionally/intellectually-charged subject as plain (as could be) to a class of 100 bright-eyed, budding psychologists at Cal State Channel Islands only yesterday... … I guess it's on my mind. Who am I kidding? Certainly not you, dear reader. You know better. You know me better. You, faithful reader, to whom I've spelled-out in my book, a word, the word, that has glimmered and winked out on the horizon of farthest reaches of the inner universe of my life. And this word is... … inevitable. My relationship with this word is… well, it’s the chimera of my life. It’s lion’s head and dragon’s body, has shape-shifted almost as many times as the infamous "it" (dysphoria) that I also described in “Getting Back To Me.” It's a word that started out as a known but distant throb. Then, for a while, became a siren’s call, threatening to dash my life on the rocks of doom. Then faintly as a distant beacon in the darkness, before finally shredding the clouds into vast ribbons, as courage and Grace blazed into my life. But it does demand some attention as the giddiness of sunlight warms my skin. I have, as a student of yoga, been more than casually aware of karma, destiny, fate and kismet. None of these are the same, it turns out, for me or anyone. And with almost thirty years of study, I can't confuse these. Karma, in the true yogic sense of the word, actually has three flavors. One you brought with you into this lifetime. One you created in this lifetime and are experiencing with every perceived new moment, and continue to create in this lifetime with every thing that you do with that moment. The last is the “bolt of lightning” that seemingly comes from out of nowhere, but that is still a reaction to your past actions. (I know, me, too. I have yet to understand the differences between number three and the other two, but then again, I’m “justa” student, I don’t pretend to be an expert). In simpler terms, karma is action and reaction, creating action... and reaction... demanding more action than reaction, if one’s on one’s game. To me, the above mental pretzel is important because it’s how I’ve tried to understand this lifetime. The first flavor of karma was what I thought my life which had been, was going to be. A sentence, if you will, a prison-term I could do nothing about. A destiny, if you will, that was going to be "as best as could be expected." The spiritual equivalent of "bless your heart." A mediocre life that would be marked by good deeds and noble acts, by the love I made, rather than received… that would earn me a better go next time. A better life could be mine next time in exchange for the effort I put forth this time. But God did give me a mind. And a heart. And this life. The next life was a gamble. How could I sell this life and Mylove short? No. I couldn't give up. I wouldn't give up. And as many of you who have heard me write (hang with me), the she that is me staged an explosive escape. She didn’t just pick the lock on her dungeon doors, she blew up the castle. But, as dramatic as that sounds, it didn't solve all of my life. Which brings me to the other two flavors of karma. And that's where it's gets murky. Am I charging toward inevitable because of karma I created or karma I'm creating? Was I always going to heed inevitable's whisper or am I'm creating its call? Was this path I'm now running down as fast as I can, making up for years lost, trying to live the years left by taking a hard right turn, always going to be my path? Or did I just suddenly wake up and am now seeing the road clearly for the first time, and choosing this path consciously. Well, Geezus when you put it that way, what idiot would confess to the former? So there. I guess I just answered my own question. And I guess it’s so, cuz I have both duck bumps and tears. Maybe it's why I can't help but be open, very open, almost too open about what I'm doing. I'm passionate about living this thing called life to the fullest. Now that I know what compromising oneself (I used to say checking my swing for you baseball fans) actually feels like--how insidious it really is as the water gently warms around you and you have no idea that you're being lulled by this bath that is actually soup. And you are the main ingredient. Your life got past you. And you didn't even know it as the ball went between your legs... No. I won't have it. At least I wouldn't have it, which why the walls fell as the dragon who once guarded the hostage blew down the battlements, and this damsel jumped aboard the scaly back, took the reins and soared... But here's the thing. This is just me. As I've gotten further out into the world as ... well, as me, the girl who was raised by wolves (if you gimme a sec I think I can cram a few more metaphors into this before we get to the end), I find myself speaking about and to the issues of our community. In the readings and lectures Mylove and I have been devoting our lives to, I feel responsible when I’m at the megaphone. So here goes: We in the trans community are not our bodies. Yes, we love all that goes with glorifying and celebrating our physicality; from Buck Angel's tats and pecs to Laverne Cox's curves and hair, to Jenny Boylan's specs and class, to Liz Bornstein's bohemian flair... ... but none of those great people are their bodies. What they have done is what everyone who lives, does. They live. They have bodies. They care for them, clothe them, adorn them. And for the outside world we know it looks confusing. We have been at odds with our own bodies for too long in most every case, so when we turn that around, it looks like we ourselves are consumed/obsessed by them. You have no idea how traumatic looking at (or not looking as was my case) my image in the mirror, because its reflection merely showed the walls of my prison. So now that I actually like how I look, I love that woman who stares back at me. It’s relief beyond compare. So, we all fiercely guard our right to govern our bodies and our privacy. Let's be clear. GCS is not a requirement. It is not an achievement or measuring stick. No one is "more trans" than anyone else—not because of hormones or medical procedures, suffering, trials or any other outside criteria. And we can't care if the cis world understands. It isn't for them to decide anyway. But here's why we all politely demure to privacy or out-and-out call you out when you cite your curiosity as the excuse for being rude: when you ask that question you are suddenly making us inhuman. You are asking a question whose answer is reserved for lovers and doctors, and you are neither if you are asking. Because you would know the answer if you were one of those. You would have earned our trust to know that answer, and we would've told you. We are not our bodies, but your question shows you don't get this. You are making my genitals the subject of your curiosity. Cis people seem to be offended that we would keep this secret from them. Hmm. So there it is... but my flight’s about to touch down at Sky harbor. More later! As we wait to taxi to the gate (bizzy day at Sky harbor) I am also parked emotionally. I am on the verge of tears, but there's an exhilaration in the water. I'm worried that I spent so much time writing the above disclaimer that I'm selling my own experience of now short. I am feeling like an astronaut about to leave the pod bay doors and step into the void. And on the other side is... is… is what? What do I expect will be my next... what? Step? Threshold? Milestone? I don't even know what to call it. I am getting surgery to take care of something that has... been what all my life? A problem? An issue? None of these seems accurate. That’s because, this has been a black hole in my consciousness. A place I don't go. An area of my body I don't look at. A part of me that I try not to think about... I have always felt... okay, dissociated in this meat suit. Am I really wearing this boy's body? and why? Time out for an über-ride to Scottsdale… And we're back. Inevitably, I got here. This here, right here. T-minus 2.5 hours to my first consultation with the surgeon and counting... I’m going to eat some lunch and pick up where I left off over chips and salsa and a taco salad. But how did I get here is still numbing my mind. How did I ever get to here, despite my own body contradicting every thought and experience about who I really am for 54 years? This could be why I am so mentally strong. I can hold to the truth of reality despite all and I mean all odds. It's why fantasy, as much as I, who had permanent creases in my jeans’ back pocket from the constant companion of Lord of the Rings, I who was the first DM (ask a geek) in my circle of D&D'ers. Yes, that I who would going to make a career in fantasy... ... just couldn't take fantasy anymore in my own life. I couldn't take that being who I am would be a dream, a concept, a figment of my imagination. So what was it other than inevitable? And if so, then why is it... unbelievable that I could actually, really, finally be here? Because the chasm between perceived reality (this body is... well, it has boy parts!) and inevitable, seemed farther than the nearest star. And yet... across time and space, the seals on my pod have just been breached, oxygen has entered my body and I'm emerging from my suspended animation to step forth on planet Venus. For reals? For reals. For reals! I think, as I set foot on the Venusian soil, that it's unbelievable because I never dared believe I would ever be here. I dreamed it, oh how I dreamed it, but never, ever ever dared to actually believe it. Remember, I make make-believe for a living. I know how the sausage is made (too soon?). I know where the smoke ends and the mirrors begin... so why would I believe that my own dream could actually come true? Because, honey... it's inevitable. It was inevitable from the start. This day has been coming to you since before you could dream. And before I know it, I'm in the office and meeting with Dr. Ley. As a trans woman I feel understandably comfortable in her presence. She's drop dead gorgeous. (I need to talk to her about her internet photos. Honey, they seriously don’t do you any justice) and basically, I'll have what she's having! And she is all business, explaining in great and perfect detail, in ordinary terms, what will be my new reality. Depth of cavity. Aftercare procedures. Surgical reality and managed expectations. And Mylove is here by speaker phone. Dr Ley laughs that she hasn't looked at me the whole time, focusing her whole spiel at the phone. But it's better than okay. This has to be a mutual decision. And if this is the compensation for her not being on the plane with me today, then so be it. And Mylove has questions: What is the recovery time? Will [my] age be a negative factor? How does this compare to other major surgeries? Like her hysterectomy or her colostomy? That's Mylove. She's got my back even as I'm about to tharn. I am so overwhelmed I'm ready to just let it all happen. But Mylove would never let me do something that... stoopid. She would never let me go into this half-cocked (still too soon?), wouldn't let me sleepwalk through the second biggest decision of our lives. This isn't in the least "elective" surgery, unless by elective you mean lifesaving. Cuz that's the thing--as fucking mind-blowing, gobsmacking, knock you to you knees, crazy as this could be... as completely overwhelming brain-freezing full tharning as it should be (and is!), the alternative is still a spectre that looms out on the fringes of my consciousness... the utter despair of a life unlived, the splinter in my heart that would never let me rest. So, maybe that's my beautiful identity showing up for its day, finally. Finally, ready to step out and step up to... inevitable. Cuz, after the doc pulls and tugs and examines what will be her raw materials to fashion me a new vijay-jay, she makes sure I'm really okay. And it's here that I feel the most comfortable. She knows what I'm really going through--from the inside out. The tsunami of emotions and the sheer giddiness that will all be in our rearview mirrors very soon. She outlines the gory details and usually, this is where my nervous system shuts down, no exaggeration. Even the thought of cold surgical instruments and my warm flesh in the same area code will usually have me pulling the rip cord… but, I'm all in, so in, I stay. And I takein all the details that will soon be my daily (wait, daily?!) regimen. At least a year’s worth of intense, okay let's say "making intimate friends" with my new... me. And it feels important to stop and ponder that. I never referred to the organ down there as mine. it was it, that, and the, but never "my," as if I knew on some level to become attached to it. But it will be my new me, and mine. It doesn't go away. Just like me, it will be transformed into something beautiful and feminine and... right. And then I get my second gobsmack - from Miki the business manager, wearing her hat as scheduler... And I have to hold on to chair… am I dreaming? Cuz she just proposed a date that's a full six months sooner than everyone had led me to expect. I am in the right place after all. In fact, were it not for the natural cycles of my hair growth (downstairs), I could go sooner. Dr. Ley's addition to the practice has relieved almost a year’s waiting list. And then, I'm back in an Über, listening to my Phoenix driver extol the virtues of a city that I'll soon be seeing a lot of. But most important is the phone call I need to make now... Mylove and I talk about the "other call" (it already has a name in our family) and we acknowledge, it's actually a call from which we will measure time. I listen as Mylove tries to keep her own emotions in check as she makes sure that I'm okay. I am. Torn between lying on the floor and crying and screaming and dancing for joy, I'm a hot mess. And she is... almost the same. Yes, we still have a lot to do. Yes, with nothing on the horizon but uncertainty and promise, why not schedule it for then? And then there's the second phase which requires three months of healing before it can be considered. So we opt for phase two for just after my birthday. A new me, but I'll still be a Cancer! So, together, we turn right into the winds of change and hold on. I’ve been talking a lot in this blog about what I am receiving as the new girl. So much so, that I could rename this weekly venture “An embarrassment of riches.” And before we go too far, I hope I have been clear I am an incredibly lucky girl.
My father used to keep me grounded (and I’m not sure my pops get enough props in my recent writings. He was, despite a few flaws, flawless—a force of nature that has 50% stake in the woman I am today, and I am proud to be his daughter). Where was I?… Oh yeah, he would say, “… but for an accident of birth …” to make sure I never got ahead of or behind myself in the entitlement department. As a working-class Irish kid from the pseudo mean streets of 1950’s Marine park Brooklyn (in early pictures, he was just like the Jets of “West Side Story,” the kind that would taunt an Officer Krupke into chasing him and his fellow hooligans from their shenanigans), my pop knew that the only thing between the Maddens and success was doing something stupid… like letting your ego make decisions for you. In today’s 2016, Black Lives Matter world, “but for an accident of birth” is a humbling contemplation that many white folk have either too much guilt or are too defensive about to effectively “grok.” And trust me, as a white trans woman, I’m getting a little tired of defending myself to my cisgender sisters who refuse to get past the smell of my being raised by wolves, regardless of the color of my skin. And I’m also a little weary of trying to defend being able to relate, in principle and theory, to those of color who deny that the obstacles I face against “transphobia” are anything close to racism. Talk about double jeopardy. So, I freaking get it. I don’t claim to say I have ever, nor will I, feel the sting of institutional and generational discrimination, but I also won’t be able to walk freely into a bathroom in any redneck overrun state anytime soon either. Racism and transphobia are not. The. Same. And yet, they both need to change. So rather than get lost in the weeds on comparing boo-boos, I would rather talk today about healing. And in this instance, it’s a case of “physician heal thyself.” My pop’s teaching serves me well here. Because there’s another side to the “but for accident of birth” coin, and it’s this: Since I can. Since I have. Since I know. What will I, what can I, give back? How can I serve? What shall I do about any and all of the above? I have to admit that I never connected serving with being trans (of course I never connected myself with being trans before either, but we’ve talked about this). In truth, most of us start out just trying to figure how to live our lives, shaking off as many years of being “not trans” as we all may have. The younger girls raised by wolves of today at least don’t have this issue, but that don’t mean they get off Scott free; they get their own package of challenges, which I can only report anecdotally. I cannot say I have experienced these, so we’ll save them for later. But my friend, Valerie (geezus am I gonna have to start paying her royalties?), said to me when I first came out, “I can see you giving lessons to cis-gender women about how to succeed in a man’s world.” Okay, a brief moment of undying gratitude to Val. After twenty years of friendship, she literally didn’t even bat an eye when I disclosed that the man she thought she knew, had supported in the world of writing and pure friendship, was, in fact, a woman. She had watched my career in the adventure reality world, knew my successes and my rise from crew member to Showrunner, and all that that entailed… and she merely added the newest detail (my true identity) to the above equation and came out with the above analysis. Yes, I, as a woman, had learned how to succeed in a man’s world. She never questioned how tough or crazy that sounded, but rather that I truly did have something that would be valuable to the sisterhood. Now, it’s important to note that many of us who were raised by wolves come into the sisterhood “hat in hand,” apologizing, and as I have written in previous posts, grateful for even a scrap of acceptance. We will rarely have the confidence or the conviction that any of our years of running with wolves will be worthy of anything but the scars we used to wear as badges of honor. And I, for one, am still feeling a grumble in my stomach when I describe any of my past glories when they veer into the “lookie, how cool I was” world. So, to hear one of my role models say that I had something valuable, I had to coax my feelings away from the natural inclination to poo-poo them as harbingers of the past, and take notice. What would that look like? This “how to succeed in a man’s world” lessons thingy. Mylove and I used to play a parlor game with many women over the course of our marriage, and it went something like this: Mylove would bring in a friend who had “troubles with her boy,” and I would be able to offer a “what boys are really thinking/saying” analysis. It was uncanny, (surprise, surprise!). I seemed to be the “guy whisperer” and was seen as “disclosing the secret life of boys” when in fact, I was using my women’s intuition, and combining it with boots on the ground intel and “bumped my nose many times,” experience. I sounded like the Oracle. And tho’ I was spot on 99% of the time (who’s perfect?), I never liked this game. My counsel never stood up when it mattered, protecting hearts from being broken, or stopping women from doing silly things that they would regret, because, ultimately, a girl’s gonna do what a girl’s gonna do. Nobody, and I mean nobody, no matter how much sense they seem to be making, will keep them from their appointment with their own destinies. Girls, am I right? When was the last time you were able to talk your girlfriend out of going home with “that jerk?” I rest my case. So, you can see why Valerie’s challenge made me a little gun-shy. But it’s not all. The other chasm I had to build a bridge and get over was this: before coming out (and I wasn’t in my Oracle state), whenever I found myself engaged with women in a particular subject that we might call “women’s domain,” if I had an opinion, no matter how right it was, it was still coming out of a face everyone thought was a man’s (mine). The flip side of that was whenever I called a guy on his actions. No matter how right I was, I was shot down. Because in the boy’s world, there’s a serious pecking order that determines when and where you can call another guy on their actions/opinions and have any effect. Again, it was dismissed out of hand. They can’t accept that their actions could be boiled down to such a simple, and predictable, behavior. But. Valerie is usually never wrong. She’s very thoughtful and very direct. So I looked deeper at this while agreeing to get over my reluctance to believe that anyone would listen to me, at least long enough to see what she could’ve possible seen. And I had an opportunity to do this almost right away. I attended a screening this summer of “I Stand Corrected,” which was made by a woman that I had mutual friends with, Andrea Myerson. I went to meet her. She’s a great documentary filmmaker, and we had corresponded a few times up to the event. As a cisgender woman, she had shown an incredible grasp of the trans journey of her subject, Jennifer Leitham. Jennifer was, and is, one of the greatest left-handed bass players in the world, and had transitioned while a member of Doc Severinsen’s band. We got there early and we met Jennifer before Andrea even got there. She was gracious and approachable. The film is amazing and, as you can guess, heartbreaking, as this truly incredible woman and musician faced the heinous discrimination from a notorious boy’s club that she was too great a person to allow keep her down. It’s inspiring, especially when you see how her career is fruitful for her on her own terms now, after she was able to right her own ship. After the screening, there was a Q&A with both Andrea and Jennifer. What was inspiring to see was the number of women musicians, cis- gender mostly. Jenny is a big deal in the trans community, but this screening was sponsored by the Long Beach LGBT center, and the majority of the audience were cis lesbian and allies. They had also seen the film multiple times. My point is, they were fans and hopeful peers. And most of the questions were asked musician to musician. Jennifer is seen by many of these earnest up-and-comers as a mentor and inspiration. But! Her answers were not helpful, especially when the questions steered into the “how did you,” “what would suggest…” vein of dealing with a professional world ruled by men. And, lest you think the music world is “enlightened,” Jennifer, as I said, regarded as one of the greatest stand-up bassists ever, and even more rare as left-handed, was denied initiation and inclusion in the jazz festivals around the world after her transition. The music world turned its back on her, and even the so-called “allies” in the film supported her only when interviewed. So, it was not really a surprise that her answers were generally in the “yeah it sucks out there, good luck” category when asked if she had any advice for her fans. And I could feel the bile beginning to rise in my throat. Before I knew it, I was calling out Jenny for not helping. As elder women who had not only been raised by wolves but ran with them, and then ran the pack, we did have something to bring to the table. We should be offering our gift (thank you, Alexandra Billings) to our cis- sisters. We did have knowledge of what could, and eventually did, work. And more importantly, we could use our position to work for change for all women. Here I was, openly challenging this great woman, in her own room, on her own turf, as the belle of her own ball, to agree with me. Okay. Yes, I felt bad for my sense (or lack thereof) of decorum. So bad that I almost compounded my felony by being a bit rude to the women who came up to exchange business cards and thank me for my… well, outburst, to catch Jennifer before she left the theater. I caught her as she took her place behind a table full of her CDs and apologized to her as we exchanged my signed book for her signed CD. And she confessed that years of concert halls and airplane miles had made hearing the spoken voice hard for her (thank god it hasn’t affected her playing), and she hadn’t really heard my challenge. But, hearing it again, now in the quieter environs of a reception in her honor, she agreed. We had something to say. We should take our seat at the table. Being raised by with wolves had to be worth something, after all. The obvious question is how? Is it by example alone? We are, as trans women (along with our trans brothers), already on shaky ground. Each one of us has a “qualifier,” an adjective bolted on the front of our “used to be” titles, careers, and positions. Alexandra Billings and Lavern Cox are trans actresses; Ian Harvie, a trans comedian/actor; Jennifer Leitham, a trans bass player. Now, each of us has been worked our way up in the meritocracy of professionalism, and we have risen to the success we enjoy through hard work, skill, and experience. We may be forced (and some do choose) to use the trans prefix as a way to stand-up for our rights and to work for change for our community, but we want our work to stand on its own, and not with a metaphysical asterisk. And though we have fought most of our lives to be “justas” (as in justa woman or justa man), we cannot deny that we are mysterious, wise, magical “unicorns” who roam the forests of life amidst the ordinary mundane creatures… and that comes with a price. We might be regarded as too much of a muchness to be either relatable or taken seriously. Can our credibility be recognized as easily as Valerie had seen mine, or does the general public use our prefix to suddenly color our views, taint our experience, or disqualify our achievements? Will we be afforded the respect and responsibility that Native Cultures confer on their transgender brethren? Or, will some continue to see us as a threat to power; living reminders that the narrow view of “gender-normality” is dying, that it has, in fact, always been false, and no amount of their shouting will change reality. We, who were raised by wolves, know these challenges all too well. And truly speaking, even I (once the adrenaline backed down) couldn’t blame any Jennifer one bit if she “just” wanted to live her life, a life that had been on hold, chained to dysphoria, for decades. Who could ask her to now also take on the task of having to share how the “other half does it,” with the remaining portion of her precious life, just to get her seat at the table? Nobody should have to pay for a seat at the table, but then again, there’s a ton of things in life that aren’t fair (but what hard work, perseverance, and maturity can, and does, change). What you bring to the table is usually the price of admission. And for those of us who were raised by wolves, the lessons we learned about how they run is just a starting point. To stay at the table, we’ll have to have the rest of who we are be just as valuable. But I guess that’s on us. Okay… I recently had a “come-uppance” from a dearly cherished big sister, Alex.
I’ve been developing a TV dramedy series based on my book, “Getting Back To Me – from girl to boy to woman in just fifty years,” with the amazing and fabulous Valerie C. Woods. Through Grace (I don’t believe in luck, per se) and dear friends, we are blessed to have the best of the best to sign on to play the character based on me. The incomparable Alexandra Billings. The great news is, we started to become friends before I even approached her about the script. We both share being married to the most amazing women on the planet for over twenty years. And tho’ the divine Ms. Billings transitioned when she was in her 20s, we also share an uncompromising world view of the preciousness of this life—lives that just wouldn’t be denied despite everything we tried. Something Alexandra calls the “gift.” I’m telling you this to point this week’s spotlight at a subtle, yet tenuous phenomenon that I’m not sure I’m alone in experiencing, but have yet to see anyone discuss. And that phenom is this: Where do I allow my attention, my awareness to rest? And for how long? That’s a very sterile version of the words banging inside my brainpan, but I am forcing myself to be clear. The above line is a fundamental question for students of yoga (guilty as charged), but I realized that I’m stuck on the superficial level of that question with good reason. Now that the constant despair of dysphoria that used to rule my life is a thing of the past, I have available bandwidth to use to witness the molecular re-wiring of my psyche. But it has an urgency that someone described in one of the reviews of my book: “Ms. Madden’s unflinching honesty makes me ask myself, “What will you do with the gift of your left life?” About once a day, that phrase (thanks Jen!) stops me in my tracks. It’s why I wrote my book in two months of solid fourteen-hour days. It’s why I am relentless in my other writing religiously, continuing a work ethic that used to come to an “all stop” on weekends. But it’s also why I take the extra time to make sure I’m looking my best. Now that I’m here, I will not waste a moment. True, it can be a gnarly schedule to maintain—If not physically, then at least mentally; but for sure spiritually. There has to be balance in order to maintain… balance. To this end, I had truly intended to try to lighten-up a bit this week and write something a little on the frivolous side. I’ve been keeping a notebook for just such an occasion and was planning on taking a stab at one of these themes (cue montage music as graphics slide on and off with dramatic flair and savoir-faire): *“The Physics of a woman’s purse” -- no matter how small, you still can lose not only your favorite lipstick, but also that gigantic ring of keys and your rusa-frasin’ cell phone even while it’s ringing! I swear, I once lost a family of four for three days in my “sac.” *“Everyday Super powers” --Marcy hates my seemingly superhuman ability to put lipstick on once and have it stay all day, whereas hers is gone as soon as she puts the cap back on. Also why can some women go sleeveless in a snowstorm? How do some women wear heels all day? *“Yes, but can’t I like just a little bit of sexism?” --I know I’m supposed to not like it when I get called “darlin’” or ‘hun,” but at least they got the gender right. “Geezus, I AM shrinking!” -- the never ending comedy as hormones continue to sculpt a woman out of fifty-year-old flesh. Giving up traditional jobs around the house (opening jars, carrying the heavy stuff) when upper body strength fades away. “Like hell, we Glisten” or “How come I get no sympathy when sweat destroys the bangs I just spent thirty minutes straightening?” From the beauty is not for wimps files, Scottie’s misadventures with eye shadow primer, liquid eyeliner and that dreaded mirror. The music swells to a comical climax as… *“Why is it surprising that I know what shoes go with which skirt?” Or… “You don’t look half bad.” -- this one explores the madcap reactions that Scottie, as the new girl, gets at most adult gatherings. The shock and awe that a girl raised by wolves could even look presentable in polite company is offset by her own unintended, self-outing. Comedy ensues. As I’ve said a number of times (in various ways), the everyday life of anyone in the transgender community is not all anything. We are not the clichés that TV and film portray. Some days our stories are horrifying—that’s why you are hearing them. Everyday, ordinary, “gee they’re just like normal people” stories aren’t worth repeating, aren’t really interesting, except when they break down stereotypes that even we inside the community begin to believe ourselves. My book is groundbreaking in that I didn’t have “a hell to leave.” And my transition, so far, has been relatively painless, if you don’t count being disowned by my baby sister, oh, and that being not hired since I came out thingy! Light, laughter & love have lit the way for Mylove and me, Joy is our daily experience. But the thread of this blog, since it first dropped way back in July, has been a tad on the heavy, if not heady side of things. So who could blame me if I wanted to let off a little creative steam “rife with comedic possibilities” that are also a part of my everyday navigating through this girl’s life? Apparently… me. But it’s a me who’s ears are still ringing from my come-uppance with my big sis Alexandra. It’s a me who typed the above quote, “And…what will you do with the gift of your left life?” It’s a me who thought she wanted a day off (heck everyone else gets labor day off, what’s with me?) and thought she could slide by with a piece of fluffy “cake” in the form a silly blog about the tropes of the trans experience— “oh, isn’t that funny, she’ll have to learn to walk all over again in high heels… a ha ha ha hah… or let’s watch as she gets all aflutter when she gets to buy a new dress! Isn’t it sweet? Isn’t ‘she’ cute?” But it’s also a me who is trying to walk a razor’s edge between life and obsession, between accurately articulating my corner of the human experience as it’s happening, and self-absorption. Confessing out loud that I really am excited, really do get thrilled with the little things that I’m discovering (first hand) about being a woman in today’s society is dangerous because it calls my credibility into question. If I am voice worth listening to in the community, then why am I talking about lipstick? Shouldn’t I use this moment in the reader’s life to enlighten or illumine? But sometimes my “one little victories” of everyday life have been heard as interesting to some, as they are to me. As much as it may inspire some in my life to look anew at the little things in their lives, I am, at the end of the day, an artist and media professional. I have disciplined myself to make every moment, every opportunity, count. I have disciplined myself to make every moment, every opportunity, count. It’s what made me a royal pain-in-the-tookas with some of the shows I’ve produced in the past. It’s why I shot an entire Comanche “drum” to bless the “noodlin’ season” for the premiere of“HillBilly Handfishin.’” (A drum is a term that refers to a mini pow wow, in this case it was 15 drummers/chanters and 30 dancers in full costume, two real tipis, and a bonfire.) Admittedly a tad “overkill” for a “cartoon” of a reality show that followed the antics of Okies and city slickers using their feet as bait to catch the catfish unfortunate enough to be born in the Red River. But I just couldn’t back down. As silly as the concept was, it still had a heart and a humanity that was a way better story about an aspect of this corner of our country’s culture than the network or the production company believed possible. And, of course, the network killed “the drum,” using only a few shots of the funnier faces lit by firelight under the credits. This was just one more fumble to go along with the continuing lunacy in relations with Native Americans. And it really hurt to be party to it. And it also illustrates just how far this girl goes to not let herself take mediocre or “good enough,” or worse, “it’s justa…” for an answer. So that’s why I got my come-uppance from Alexandra. When my producing partner, Valerie, and I were talking about our new show with Alexandra, she said, “Scottie, don’t waste any one’s time talking about the same old tired crap. You have to dig deep, girl, and write about the stuff that terrifies you!” Now, I am smart enough to keep her words in perspective. Especially with a drama in this Golden Age of Television, she’s absolutely right. Our work together has to be the stuff of brilliance. There’s too much on the line to waste an opportunity like a television series. Valerie reminded me that “the biggest room in the world is the room for improvement.” But I will take my Big sis’s words to heart. I promise to also keep this blog in perspective—which is why I shifted gears as I sat down to write today. The constant mental tug-of-war between the trivial and the substantive that has become this posting is the perfect example of life imitating art. This is, I believe, worth talking about. I must thread the needle between obsession and focus, between questioning and query, with every thought that comes from a maturing mind recognizing that is maturing. Which it should be doing, right? It gets interesting, however, when you factor in the effects of transitioning (including hormones and the effects they have on the body and mind) and the ever-changing horizon of my worldview. This constant shifting of mental impressions can be disorienting at the least. It comes from the constant evolution of a now unfettered psyche, ad it’s picking up speed every day. So yeah, swinging back and forth from the superficial, “gee, this color does look good on my nails,” to the deeper questions of who am I and how will my femininity shine in this world, can be dizzying… And all of this is, at age 54… okay, mind-blowing. A lot of this (the blown part) stems from the realization that the reallocation of my mental bandwidth (which has just returned home from a fifty-year-old war) could be this tangible. And that’s even before we get to what this reallocated mind is coming up with. That, in turn, becomes mind-blowing after my years of running with the wolves with whom I was raised. These changes, and this evolution, as subtle as they both are, do shake me. Like that sudden knowledge that I know the way to do something has suddenly, without warning, given way to caring more that whatever is done, gets done to everyone’s benefit. I would never have confessed this out loud before. In the wolf pack, admitting weakness is usually never a good idea. In the world of women, admitting a weakness is not a weakness but a strength. A clear assessment of a situation. And nothing more or less. Maybe that’s the gift that Alexandra speaks of—being able to see all sides and have the confidence, experience, skill and desire to make sure that all sides benefit. I guess what she’s challenging me to understand is that just because it’s a gift, it doesn’t make it my gift. It’s not mine to hold onto, and it’s not mine to keep. So… what will I do with the gift of my left life? Share it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it in my favorite lipstick. I get asked all the time. How is your family taking this? How are your friends accepting … this?
It’s … complicated. No … that’s bullsh*t. I’m sorry, but it’s not complicated at all. People seem to think they can reserve the right to stay stuck about a girl who was raised by wolves. They seem justified in believing that somehow, suddenly, I’ve become a pariah, that all of my accomplishments are wiped clean, and now that I look way cuter in a dress, they treat me as if I am no longer capable of feelings or worthy of their respect or, God forbid, their love. Yeah, I know. Dumb as a box of rocks, is that notion. Stupid beyond belief. And it’s a lot like the time in one of Mylove’s previous marriages, when the guy said, “It’s the dog or me.” And she replied, “Thanks for making it easy.” (“Mylove” spelled as one word, for those of you new to me and us and “Raised By Wolves,” is my beloved wife of 27 years.) It’s not hard to dismiss idiots from your life—they do a good job taking the chicken exit without any help from me. But what is hard is the people whom I love and who love me saging that they are “supportive” when I come out to them, only to do what my friend, Monica, calls “the French fade,” and leave my life without even saying goodbye. They just stop answering the phone, forget to respond to emails and generally… … fade from my life. I describe it this way: Our hearts, yours and mine, have a golden wire that strings between us across time space and our own awareness, or lack thereof, and connects us to something deeper, richer, and more … human than the strangers who walk among us. I know I’ve jiggled our wire. I know, I’ve rocked many a world. I tried for almost five decades to never twang this chord but always answer its vibration. I was the one who never tested friendships but always showed up, stood up and stood by. I answered this wire’s hum every time, which is why everyone was caught flatfooted when I not only plucked that power chord, but thumped on it like Geddy Lee’s bass run in “Tom Sawyer.” Nobody saw it coming. I didn’t run in the conservative or liberal tribe; I ran in a plain ’ol run-of-the mill real life tribe. Some of us were gay, some are staunch religious folks, and yeah, mostly we were a cross section of America with everyone just living their what the rebuild an party would call middle class lives. Until Scottie ripped her bass solo! And that wire got so twanged in some hearts that the string unraveled and came loose in the take-up. Now, some amazingly beautiful and truly inspiring people immediately grabbed that wire and reconnected it without missing a beat (see what I did there?)—true friends (many of whom I wrote about in my book). Others, having read my book, have sought me out to tell me they have tightened down that wire. But the troubling part is there are some very close friends and family who have no idea that the wire is loose. And they seemingly are saying … they don’t care. About us. About me. They were cool when I came out. They offered words of encouragement. But then … crickets. I want to ask them, “are you really letting go of my hand? Is this really the end?” And is this how they want it to end? Life is too short, and putting off saying I love you hasn’t been recommended by … well, anyone. So, is this a normal human failing, or … the big goodbye? Here’s why I’m confused. I have always been the one who dipped my shoulders in a crowd, made the effort over time to call on someone, was the first to apologize when we fought. I rarely threw my toys out of the wagon with anyone in my life, tho’ I frequently rail against “them” and “they” and pick a fight with city hall about once a week on average. (My poor Honey has to endure these metaphysical tirades and complete exercises in futility.) So I will never know if they were just busy, or if they are truly letting go of my hand, and … … have given up on tightening our wire. I need to know. Am I weird? Okay, that wasn’t accurate, cuz we all know the answer to that. But what I should be asking is, “does this make me weird?” In other words, do others feel the same way? Or is this a product of maturing, and starting to count down in life instead of up? (I’m 54, and medical science is improving but let’s face it, 108 is unlikely.) I went to a memorial service for a dear friend yesterday. So maybe it’s on my mind more than the next girl. I grew up with Theresa who was a beautiful, funny, strong, and glorious woman, and a mother of two equally amazing women. She fought cancer for almost eight years, and won every day. Seeing how she spent her last years made me see that we saw life the same way—it’s waaaaay too short to spend each precious day not-in-love with your family, friends and the world. She played her side of the wire with everyone in her life with virtuosity and she never stood for any slack in her wires. And I try to follow her lead, the same way I did in high school. She was an amazing example of how to be gracious, strong, and loving, even in the crazy world of raging hormones and teenage angst. And maybe I need to get over the hesitation some people in my life are showing, and not take “no” for an answer. Theresa wouldn’t have. She would graciously laugh when those around her were acting up or acting out. She had such strength and gentle compassion for their stupidity, and confidence that they were, in fact, actually capable of feeling the slack in the wire, even if only eventually. But that never stopped her from keeping her side of their wires taught. Maybe I need to steal my honey’s line here and remember that “God only gives us what we can handle. She must have amazing confidence in me.” Pluck, Pluck, twang … opps … tighten, tighten … pluck … ahhh … much better. Let’s make some music … we have no idea if we even have tomorrow. It’s summer. Gorgeous afternoon sunshine, heat wave comin’ but not here yet, Chicago Live from Carnegie Hall tellin’ me that it’s “Only Love Beginning,” and I’m …
Carried away by it all. It dawns on me, I have always been a California Sunshine Girl (as my father would say with a wistful and proud tenor … usually to my sister Kimm or about any of the various women he met as a car salesman in the infamous Inland Empire). It’s just that you, he and the rest of the world never knew it. But the image of me as a naturally athletic and active woman whose beauty stemmed more from her smile than her wardrobe, who lit up every space she graced, and celebrated the outdoor lifestyle that is our birthright in SoooooCal, is actually my default state of being. Until, that is, I remember that I’m trans. I’ve written about my dance with this moniker, this label, in my book, and I will confess that it is even now, a work in progress. But my personal dance doesn’t matter anymore. Because being trans in 2016 is a … well, it’s something that none of us is. Being trans in 2016 is to be something we have all fought against for our entire lives, and now, must continue to fight, everyday. Because being trans in 2016 is to be part of … a thing. Being trans in 2016 … well, hang in there with me on this one, but it has nothing to do with our gender identity and, it turns out, has everything to do with our gender identity. Being trans is “an issue,” it has become one of the nation’s “dialogues,” one of the nation’s “narratives” (among many), and the definition or usage of “trans” could all depend on who’s saying it. Being trans in 2016 is “a call to arms,” “a badge of honor” and “the next civil rights front.” While for some people, being trans is “a four-letter-word,” “igniting a national firestorm,” or “the height of absurdity” (this last is a quote from former “Brain surgeon” Ben Carson). Yeah, everyone thinks they know what being trans is. After all, we are that woman on TV, that man on Facebook, that guy in the Nike Ad, that guy on that show, that woman who was on that show and is now on that woman’s show; that dude you used to work with, that woman that just started working next to you, that girl in your child’s school, that boy in the news, those girls in that music video, that woman on the Daily Show … In other words, we are the latest thing. We are a thing thing. But here’s the thing … we’re not an … any-thing. We are a somebody. And, we are somebody else’s somebody. We are your daughter, your big sister, your big brother, your new little sister, your cousin, your neighbor, your wife’s best friend, your best friend from high school … When we are a thing and, more recently, a “that” thing, we become the abstract that can be legislated against. When we are that thing that everybody’s been talking about, we vanish from the reality of life, and we become instead spectres, punchlines, cyphers. We sometimes falter ourselves and surrender to the belief that this is “our lot in life,” “the cards we’ve been dealt,” or for some, “the beds we will lie in.” We sometimes allow ourselves to take on the mantel that society seems to want to continue to shoulder us with – the “othering” that exasperatedly seems so easy for some of our fellow Americans to do without even a second thought. Now, I just admitted right there, that this is a two-way street—what society says about me and what I accept about me. But folks, the reason why we’re still talking about this is … my side of that two way street isn’t trying to kill me. And while we’re on the subject, to my friends and family: yes, your right to vote is yours and you need to vote your conscience. BUT! If your vote puts a supporter of anti-LGBTQ laws in office, then you just put a nail in my coffin, plain and simple. And it’s on you. You don’t get to wash your hands of it all, and pretend that you didn’t know. You knew, and you still voted against me and my rights, and the rights of everyone in the LGBTQ community. I will not be able to look you in the eye. So, yes, voting what you refer to as your conscience may allow you to feel good that your team won, but my life, and the lives of all my LGBTQ sisters and brothers, are literally on the line. What I am realizing, as the summer breeze brings me back into my body, is that I need to take a breath and step back from the front lines for moment and focus on my side of the street. And that’s when I realize that sometimes even I have bought into thinking of myself as other … feeling like a trans woman, instead of a justa woman; recognizing that I am different, that I wasn’t born “like all the other girls.” And I realize there are people who actually hate me without knowing me. They call me an abomination. They think I don’t deserve to live. And so, I have to take refuge where there is safety in numbers—in my trans community. Which is what I’m doing. Everyday. And that means my is-ness stays grounded in the transwoman aspect of my identity. It is a survival mode in this four-letter-word HR2 bull-pucky world. The prevailing wisdom is for us to get out there, be visible, be more than a somebody’s someone, be a loud and present and unapologetic, and wonderful, confrontational, inspirational, technological, educational, someone. Because the time is now for us to change the hearts and minds that have gone cold (or are somehow feeling that it is suddenly okay to admit that they always were) against us. These discriminatory efforts are well-funded, strategic efforts that are there to deny us our rights, to push us outside of the family of human. It will take all of us to give our all to change those hearts and minds. I have to admit, as a California Sunshine Girl, it’s hard for me to believe that the rhetoric, rancor, and revulsion directed at our community is … well, real. What’s even more amazing is how easily people who are supposed to know better, gleefully and with complete knowledge, swan dive onto the cesspool, and allow themselves to actually, and fully, hate in the name of God, in the name of religion, and our constitution. Remembering I’m trans is to remember that a whole church (the church of my childhood) has been turned against me and my family. Pope Francis said, “Ideologies that profess children can ‘choose their gender’ constitute the very annihilation of man as image of God.” Wait … did he actually say “choose?” Isn’t this guy supposed to be a man of science? He reads, right? (And don’t get me started on his namesake asking to be the “instrument of God’s peace.”) Does he only feel this way about trans children? Does he feel the same way about children born with no limbs? Cleft palate? Down Syndrome? Are they also not born in the image of God? How could any religious leader denigrate a whole population of the human race? Not only does he devalue us but he effectively placed a target on our backs. I’m aghast that he could say this because, as I was taught in my catechism classes, God doesn’t make mistakes. So Mr. Pontiff-sir, you need to get on the right side of science and history and God’s love. So, remembering I’m trans is to remember that some are trying to gain back the ground they lost in the first civil rights fight, and that’s their right (they believe) to hate. And they are all jumping on the HR2-like war wagon, turning their fight to hate on me and my community. Remembering I’m trans is remembering that my own sister has chosen to listen to everyone else about me, over asking me about me. It’s remembering that the only way to change all of this is to remember that, as a trans woman, I am beautiful, that I have more to contribute than the average person, that I make the world a better place by being in it, and that I can never allow myself to fight the world, but that I may have to fight for my place in it. Again. And Again. And Again. But also, that I must fight with light, laughter & love. Always. Forever. Given all that, maybe you now can understand that every so often, I still would like to just feel that breeze across my California Sunshine Girl’s cheek… … so I sigh. And allow myself to lose myself in that breeze … for a few precious moments. Okay… Fair disclosure? I have what many women take for granted—some do not want it nor do they seek out; others pretend they don’t have it or need it. But what any girl raised by wolves craves, at least on some level, and maybe, probably and tragically will never have is …
the company of women. Sisterhood. Now, as much as we try to paint it with a rosy brush, it’s not all love and light, even with the communities strung together by letters (oh and shared um… discriminations…). It doesn’t seem like it should be a miracle, but then it also doesn’t seem like anyone should have to worry where they go potty either … ah, reality—good old slap your forehead in disbelief, you gotta be kidding me, somebody please wake me up, reality. But yes, it’s true. So, that’s why having sisterhood is such a rare and precious thing. It’s not a given, it’s not a done deal. Not even a slam dunk. It’s … a miracle. Yes. it is a miracle, this sisterhood thingy.. And it’s not lost on me that I am the new girl, the baby sister, embraced by some as a wonderful, joyous chick with fluffy stubby little feathers where my wings will be, and the gawky, awkward gait that needs the shoulders of my older sisters to keep me from tripping over myself as I start to spread my wings and fly. At 54 years of age, this is admittedly a little weird for me to accept, but not in ways that may be obvious – having been raised and regarded and expected to succeed, to have my “feces cohesive,” to know where the four-letter-word I’m going and how to get there. As a professional leader, I was expected to make sure everyone else was safe including every new baby whatevers. I made it my business to know where the threats were, how to deal with them, and how to make it all work to our advantage (or at least, not take advantage of us). It’s a skill that fed me and Mylove (literally) for close to 30 years. So, to be the new girl, the one who doesn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t know; the one who’s “heart is blessed” (in the southern “bless her heart” dismissiveway); the one who, in many ways, is “back at square one.” Whenever I get help from my big sisters, it’s a lesson in humility. The reason being back at square one is humbling is this: as a 54 year-old woman, I have to admit … I am immature. In many ways, I don’t know how to be, as my big Sis Kathy would say, “in polite company.” I am humbled by knowing there’s a lot I don’t know. All I can offer in my defense (which I tried to explain in my book) is that I protected myself from the crash that would come whenever I allowed myself to be myself by ignoring this thing called life to go by me untouched. And so I never did learn which fork is for the salad or why you don’t wear white to a wedding. Now, this isn’t that important in the long run, right? On what planet???? Of course this is important. Women have to master “being” as a survival skill. Fortunately, it’s in our DNA. We do know how to be; it’s how we live … together. But we still have to learn where the fine line is between being gauche and standing out. At this point in my life, knowing this and knowing how to do it, are a platform and a train. And you can guess where my feet are. If you can’t imagine what it’s like to have to redefine your life at fifty, consider this: you have slowly (imperceptibly at times and dramatically at others) been “making” this person known as you. However, those of us raised by wolves have had to try to make a “persona” to show you, while keeping a parallel track of consciousness that is our self-self, slowly maturing as we age. The persona track gets to try and fail, to step out and stub its toe, bump its nose, trip over its own folly, and learn from its foibles, as well as its successes. But the self-self, oh the dear and sweet self-self, lives like Rapunzel in her cold stone tower, or worse, like Sleeping Beauty, waiting fora prince’s kiss to free her from her sleepy curse. The self-self’s so-called life gets lived in theory only, with a silent, longing whisper documenting “couldas, shoudas, and wouldas” that fall further and further out of sync with a growing intellect and ever-changing sensibilities. These sensibilities are ethereal, with no practicality to test their validity. For me growing up, my feminine self-self’s constant whisper put everything it said into ideals, “I would never do that as a woman.” “I would never let anyone talk to me like that.” “I would never let a man define my life.” “I would never wear pants.” “I would celebrate my femininity every day.” Etc. Etc. Etc. But those were the declarations of a girl who never dreamed that she’d ever get to descend the cold stone tower’s hewn steps one day, never thought she would ever cross the courtyard, never believed that she would feel the sun’s warmth on her feminine cheeks. In other words, the woman I would’ve been eventually became only the product of my mind. And I’ve had to be brutally honest with myself to accept that this is usually called a fantasy. This fantasy woman would, of course, look amazing in anything, never get sore legs or feet from heels that were too high, never get cold from hemlines too short or necklines too long, never attract derision from revealing too much cleavage, never engender disrespect, would be loved and admired by all. But, when the day did come in this lifetime that I filed the bars of my prison and broke free, I was to encounter, in the warm light of day, the real me, the real woman, who would be living in the physical reality of 2016 … a woman who was larger than many but not than most. she was not super comfortable with how some clothes showed too much of a good thing, and didn’t really look good with too much eyeliner.She was smart enough to know how the games are played, was more confident speaking up and speaking her mind than many would dare, even if her voice is deeper than she’d like. Was a bit more (I dunno the best way to say this)cavalier than most? The boy word would be… cocky. (Ew, it’s creepy to even type…) But, she is. Cavalier that is. But, and this was the big surprise, she was a bit awkward. Okay, no, a lot more awkward than most about the simplest things. Like… like, how to be. How to exist. How to relax and live. I wrote last time about how I have been in an on-going discussion about “how a woman bes,” with my screenwriting partner and mentor, Valerie. As a woman of color who has deftly and gracefully navigated Hollywood, she has a four-letter-word ton of things she can and does teach me. But this discussion keeps coming back to behavior. What are female traits/things, etc., and which are male. She has taught me that being a woman is having the right to be free from ANY rules for rules’ sake. She loves Jaden Smith and his declarations that he’s not wearing a girl’s skirt, he’s wearing his skirt. She reminds me constantly that, up until the1930’s, pink was considered too strong a color for girl babies; blue was softer and more feminine. In these discussions, I am guilty of constantly trying to draw distinctions between female & male behavior, quirks and tics. But Valerie checks me into the boards every time. (How very hockey night of me.) Having been raised by wolves, I figure, I do have a perspective that she might not have. but that doesn’t matter to her. She disagrees with the premise that there are definable male behaviors and female behaviors.. In fact, she challenges me every time without fail … I can hear her now … “not every time.” See what I mean? But she is right. She naturally sees the world the way I hope to see it. Being a woman means YOU define the you that you are. And nobody, not society, not other women, certainly not men, not history, not yesterday, nor even tomorrow, defines you. Well, except that it does. You wanna test this? Watch Fox News (an oxymoron if ever there was one). It’s in their DNA. They have changed the way that women are filmed. Fox News treats women differently from their men, and it’s so not good—from the way women are regarded by their male counterparts on camera to the disparagement they endure at the hands of their management on down. Can you say, “Meghan Kelly?” But the women who do notice this have to ignore it, because this boy’s club has given so many women prominent jobs. The women who don’t notice … well, I’m not sure they’re reading this. I mentioned all of this to my hair stylist, Tammy. This amazing woman is actually “number three” (the third person I “came out” to). She put her scissors down and spun another chair around to sit and give me a talk that I, having not had my mother’s knee or even the cliché teenage slumber parties to learn the ways of women, ever got. She was as serious as a heart attack as she rolled the words over in her head as if deciding if I was ready to hear the truth about the Easter Bunny … “Our life as women, like it or not, IS governed by our appearance. It doesn’t mean that’s who you are… but it sorta is…. who you are.” And this is how I knew estrogen is working on me. I knew what she meant by that conundrum. I can hear Valerie rolling her eyes from here. We may not want to have society judge us on either our ability to match shoes with our dress, or our indifference to that significance, but judging will be happening—even by our best and closest friends, family, and lovers. What the judger and judgee do with that judgment is up to both separately, and the stuff that makes this whole magilla the magilla that it is. We surrender to it, fight it, embrace it, buck it, ignore it or dismiss it, dance with it (to it or around it), tweak it, bend it, break it and break from it. Every day. Sigh. This gets me to my point of this mining operation. This girl had to realize that, having been raised by wolves for most of my life, I have been cultivating two sets of criteria for this mad play. One was based on male values and the other on my values. The male set has been easily dropped, mostly (tho’ wraiths of their former selves creep up from the darnedest places and at the darnedest times). But the female set was based on theory only, with little practical application to confirm, refine, and expand. Double sigh. What’s a girl to do? They say the universe hears even the slightest whisper of a prayer. And three weeks ago, I found myself in charm school. I’m not kidding. My auntie Linda really and truly embraced the opportunity (and the obvious need) to use the two weeks of Marcy’s and mystay with her, as her chance to make a lady of me. She is a dear friend who invited us to come to Seattle to promote my book. And here’s where I got the above picture of a chick being kept warm and fed as it grew to eventually be pushed from the nest to fly on its own. Auntie Linda made it her business to get up in my business to sand off as many rough spots as she could in two weeks–the collateral damage from my time with the wolves. Her motto was this: If I was ever invited to the White House, I should know how to conduct myself as a lady. Now, let me make something crystal clear. I loved, loved, LOVED every moment of her loving and gentle tutelage. Every admonishment was a baby step forward. From chewing gum in public (apparently this is frowned upon in polite company), to cursing (when I got fresh blackberry juice on my white tennis skirt and tried to verbally shout it out, I heard from two rooms away a gentle, yet firm reminder, “Lady’s don’t curse”), to being practically levitated into the air by her stern look of shock alone when I bent down on one knee in a dress to pet a dog and was, well, giving it away for free, as they say. But the harshest lesson was the day I sat back after a lunch I had made for us ladies and had, thank-you-very-much, totally nailed it. I pulled out my trusty flossing toothpick, as was my custom, and proceeded to clean my teeth. Auntie put her fork down and said with a very quiet and sweet voice, “Honey. Among family, it might be okay, but… well, you don’t… You won’t pick your teeth in public, ever, right? Ever! In fact … it’s really not okay among family, either.” Now. I felt like I had been hit in the face with a bucket of cold sh… shame. As I sat there, face burning, mind racing in roaring silence, Mylove was doing a victory dance in her seat. It burned me all night long. And then I realized why. Because I felt entitled to pick my teeth at the table that I had, all my life been schooled was rightly, and divinely… mine.I was the oldest of four children, and my father’s only heir-apparent. My sisters will probably say that my mom fawned on me, but I certainly was being raised as that chip off the old block, the apple that wouldn’t fall too far from my dad’s tree, the very image that my sisters would use to measure the men who would come to be their husbands. And I was treated to an intrinsic princely privilege. But here we were, post estrogen, and the table was my Auntie’s. It was her house. It was her food. I had merely prepared it. Where in the four-letter-word, did I four-letter-wording, get off with this … entitlement? I realized that the reason there were third-degree scorches on my heart was the double shame of discovering yet another forgotten trip wire of male privilege, and the cold guilt from knowing that I had ever embraced any of them in the first place. Look… before you either feel righteous yourself or try to help me off my hook, know that any privilege was a very small and bitter consolation prize for selling out one’s soul. And whatever perks I got have been taken back in spades. When the threat of getting raped and dragged behind a car because some psycho decides either that they get to decide what potty you get to use, or worse, that you are their new plaything, then you can call me on my supposed privilege. Until then, sit down, and put your mommy on the phone; this is a conversation for adults only. Back in charm school, the cooling salve for me in the burn ward was my Auntie’s acceptance and love and genuine desire to help me make up for lost time. And I will be forever grateful for her and those two weeks. Oddly, the universe must know I’ve got to work fast (maybe that evite to the Whitehouse is pending?), cuz the very next week, I got a crash course in being a woman in business from my wife’s dear friend and lifelong chum, Bunny. The Bun, is one of the most brilliant women I know. And it seemed like it only took her half a breath to embrace me as her baby sister. She seemed to instantly “get” that I had no idea how to go from one of the most respected showrunners in adventure TV to a woman in a man’s world. And once again, we had to act fast as I had an interview with a great production company in just a few days. She grilled me as we sat in our bathrobes and slippies, sipping “fawkey” one morning, (coffee for those just joining this blog) and apparently she was x-raying me for signs that I could at least reach up to touch that glass ceiling. I’d like to think she saw potential because she quickly left the room to return moments later with a pretty silk pouch. She poured the contents into my hand. I opened my cupped hands to see a beautiful, and now my favorite, pair of pearl and quartz earrings. The Bun looked at me and got very serious as we both sat and she imparted these instructions: Wear these. No necklace. It just draws attention to your chest. You want them to keep their eyes on your face. If they stray the earrings will make them return to your eyes. You want them to take you seriously as a woman with a brain. And then her voice went down to powerful yet hyper calm tenor: “You must really listen to the “suits.” They are stupid and afraid of making a mistake with their boss, so listen for their weaknesses and then you figure out a way to make them stronger. And you let them take the credit for everything, and then you’ll own them. You don’t ever let them own you. You give up your desire to do your own things with them. Forget about that right now. You care only about one thing. Making money. You do what they want, cash their check, get your fulfillment elsewhere.” Now, if I hadn’t been sitting in the gorgeous seaside Carmel villa that she had had remodeled to architectural digest level of exquisiteness, with a now comfortably retired powerhouse who had started as a nurse and became a leading consultant in the ADA compliant business, I might’ve dismissed her instruction as being merely… I dunno, maybe battle-scarred surrender. But she is the exact opposite, sitting tall and stately the victorious conqueror. Yes, here was one of the strongest women I know, giving me a valuable tip in the language only strong women can understand–that strong women know they are strong. They aren’t strong because others declare it. They know that nobody can ever take away their power because they know to their core that they are limitless. Because only women are capable of creation without believing that they are the source of that creation—that their power can never be lost, taken away or even given away… it just is. Powerful stuff over morning fawkey and a lesson still banging around inside my head weeks later. And again, humbling, and heady, and pinch-me-i-must-be-dreaming-what-in-the-world-did-I-do-to-deserve-this-what-took-me-so-long…joy. As I try to process this all without exploding into a supernova of relief, I realize that… holy geezus, I am going to be… better than ok. But this is how it is in the company of women. Shared knowledge and careful, mindful nurturing of the next in line, to be the best person I am capable of being. How beautiful is that? And it’s lucky for me, cuz as it’s been pointed out I’ve got a lot to learn, and fast. But I am a good student. Maybe that’s why I have been accepted so readily into the company of great women,into Sisterhood? Then again. Maybe it’s just love. Okay… I promised my womanifesto last time and… well, as they say,
I had good intentions. But… please allow me to explain. You see, as I said in the last pages of my book, “Getting Back To Me” from girl to boy to woman in just fifty years, I can’t wait to see the woman I will become. Now, for those of you who have read the book, you had the context to know that what I meant was… well, like, in the future. Like any sane person, I knew I was always going to mature, grow, get wiser, smarter… you know… like a fine wine, etc. etc. And now that dysphoria’s cloud had dissipated with the rising sun of acceptance’s brilliant light and heat, I could actually… er, um, grow up. But then, as I started to poke my nose back into this thingy called life, and realize that a few things had somehow either slipped my gaze before, or been shot down by my Aegis Defense system (sorry that too is in the book. It’d be easier if you read it and then all these witty metaphors would make sense), but I realized that I was starting to… gosh, there’s just no better word for it, than… become. And so, silly me, I thought I would write it all down and declare the woman I am and it eventually would go to the world in a well crafted, word-smithed Woman-ifesto. (Can you tell this feminism thingy is rubbing off on me all already?) I got this idea because my friend, Valerie and I often discuss these things as we write. I, as trans woman, and she, as a cis-hetero, woman of color, often have very vibrant discussions about just what is male and female behavior. And let me tell you, I’m the stodgy traditionalist, while she’s the enlightened open-minded one. So, to prepare myself for what would inevitably be a world-class, epic, on-going debate (’scuse me, discussion), I dug deep to bring up the woman I am (and had been planning to be for lifetimes) from her future, years before her debut as a very mature, worldly wise gosh-darned wonder woman with a capital Woah. I happened to mention this as the casual answer to the standard, “what have you been up to?” asked by my dear friend and cherished older sister, Eleanor… as Mylove and I were driving her and her spouse, Lucy, to the airport. NOTE: This was a great thing for Lucy & Eleanor. They were moving to live a dream they’d had for a long time. And four-letter-wording tragic for us. We have had these great women in our lives for 14 years, spent most every holiday with them and… well, we don’t know what we’re going to do with them on the other coast. Wait… sorry… I can do this… Yes. Back to the 405 freeway, late one summer Friday night (are you with me? I know I didn’t signal before I switched lanes, but this is LA, yes? Good.), I mentioned that I was working on this blog and the womanifesto and bla,bla,bla. Eleanor asked the obvious, “Well, what kind of woman will you be?” And she was excited about her question, she genuinely got the idea that I had a chance at 54 years of age to start with a clean slate and, given that golden opportunity, what would I do (as Jen Larkin wrote in my review) “with my left life?” Now, as the swarms of red taillights lit our way to LAX, I knew that this question was a great distraction from the heavy hearts we all had as we were preparing ourselves to say goodbye. But, I demurely declined to offer up a speedy answer, and we laughed about yes, Scottie was changing. She never let that kinda thing stop her in the past. Of course, we all agreed how difficult that would be to do in the now, less than fifteen minutes before… well, you know, they leave. (Can you tell how I feel by now?) The next morning, I was … a little peeved. What kind of a woman WILL I be? What did she mean by that? WILL? How about now? What am I chopped liver? (wait a minute that’s Mylove’s line). I went from zero to hissy in nuthin’ flat -- forgetting, of course, that the question was my idea. But that’s beside the point! I knew what I meant, I wanna know what she meant! But all that Sturm und Drang doesn’t answer the question sweetheart, and the truth is… finally, the fog of stupidity lifted and I saw that Eleanor was just doing what Eleanor does. And it’s one of the reasons I will miss her so terribly—she has the superpower to hear my heart before I do. And, she takes this precious knowledge and uses it to gently help me grow. So, the best thing I could do was take her enthusiasm as a “yes,” that I was on the right course, and oh yeah, I realized I still had much work to do. And I thought that if I promised you, dear reader, that answering this question – and putting it out as a great womanifesto as my next blog, I would magically have the Goddess of creativity grant me the space to get real. Um… and have I said out loud that I am feeling the pressure to live up to the great women in my family who came before me? My mother is the best example, and my aunts—all of them. I knew even before I came out that getting it right, standing tall and proud with dignity as they had was way more important than knowing which shoes went with which dress. MyLove is the best example of the ultimate woman (I hand picked her! Okay that’s not exactly accurate, my heart recognized her even before she was technically available) and Lucy & Eleanor, and Valerie, and my little sisters, and my Auntie Linda, and my new big sister Alexandra … everywhere I turn, great women are showing me the way. I have, all around me, the greatest examples of the kind of woman I am. And, I can tell you one thing--I’m not sure any one of these great women has ever thought it necessary to have their own womanifesto. It’s, well, not how they think. Trust me, Valerie has beaten that point into my head time and again. But for a girl who was raised by wolves, this “how I would live (as a woman)” had been, for oh, so many years the only cooling salve for a heart in endless turmoil. (For those of you new to my story, let’s just say, that I’m a late bloomer) I would tell myself as I sat in my dank dungeon (of my own creation, in my heart) “I would wear dresses everyday.” “I would make every day a celebration of femininity, by looking my best, to light up a room with color, and beauty.” But it wasn’t always superficial, “I would never let anyone talk to me that way.” I would know that I would be as I, had always been: strong, creative, smart and caring. But I wouldn’t have to cloak those qualities in boy-ness to maintain my cover. In essence, I have been writing this womanifesto all my life. It was scratched into the stone walls of the dungeon I had imprisoned myself in. And now that this cell is empty, and light has cleared away the moss and fungus, the walls are crumbling … and my writing is fading. Either that, or estrogen has cleared my head and I now see that a set of rules about how to be is exactly what a woman ain’t. Sure, there’s great commonality among my role models. They are all fantastic, amazing, bright, shining lights of humanity that truly make the world a better place by their existence. But they are as individual as the facets of a diamond. For every amazing mother, there’s a woman who never wanted children. For every poet, there’s a scientist, for every artist, there’s an accountant, for every extrovert there’s a scholar, for every comedienne, there’s a healer. They are: Loving. And Graceful. And caring. Intelligent. Strong. Interested. They try. They succeed. They fail. They have fears. They rise above their fears. They can laugh at themselves. They laugh with each other. They rarely laugh at others. I’m not like a lot of girls that were raised by wolves, in that I never thought I would ever be here as the woman I am. Free. Me. But now that I am here, I can drop the façade of trying to appear that I have to have the answers before I even look at the question. I can let it show that I am not sure, without making myself weak, I can allow myself to continue to blossom and know that that is the woman I am now and, as Eleanor was probably watching me discover “the woman I will be,” is a work in progress, an unwritten book, an endless possibility, and a glorious question. Which (I can hear you laughing) is the divine answer to my prayer to the Goddess of Creativity. Oh, yes, She heard me. I asked for the space to get real… and in that space I can really see: There’s a reason why we call them manifestos, there’s no such thing as a womanifesto… We don’t need them. Next time: The Company of Women. … or how do you bring 45 years on the boy’s side of the fence into alignment with being a feminist woman in 2016?Cuz, it turns out… that I am. A feminist that is. That I am, and always was a woman isn’t news to anyone by now. But being a feminist is, maybe even the harder part of my life for some to swallow.
The challenge was for me to decide was I first, second, third or… (psst… do we even have a fourth wave yet, I mean official-like and all?) The truth is, I had to go back and look ’em up, because, astute as I am (believe me, when you’re dying of thirst in the desert of identity, a few raindrops of ANY girl talk about anything feminine was enough to get me to the next oasis. I soaked -up everything I could along the way,) even I lost track of the shades of gray. And really, these shades turned out to be black and white (literally in the case of fourth wave and its splinter group, “White Feminism.” Trust me you don’t want this shade of pale). And these labels are all absolutely perfect for “othering” (America’s favorite pastime). But they do have differences that has each wave shaking it’s head at the other. I could define these you for you but others have done a much better job… (oh all right, here you go: the following is from Martha Rampton, ”Four Waves of Feminism” http://www.pacificu.edu/about-us/news-events/four-waves-feminism. And I paraphrase or add where necessary.) 1st wave: The Suffragettes and the first “unladylike” activists challenge the “cult odomesticity” 2nd wave: St. Gloria and the Gang take on sexuality & reproductive rights beginning at the Miss America Pageant in 1968 and went into the 90’s fighting for the right to define and govern our own bodies. Patriarchy and normative sexuality are broadly challenged – and more importantly for this girl, sex and gender are differentiated. But maybe even more important to today, these amazing elders were the first to show that race, class, and gender are all interrelated But this is the also the wave that gave rise to, ahem, ‘scuse me, but, wymin? Not that the majority of second wavers even gave these wymin a second thought, but they struck a chord trying to define the gender as having been born with a vagina. (we’ll get into this later on…maybe.) 3rd wave: These daughters of the Nineties took all of the above to a stiletto high extreme – embracing the very symbols of male oppression that infuriated their “mothers,” taking back the sexualized images of female sexuality as empowering examples of Grrl power. These are the femmes fatale that truly took having choice as their divine right – and nobody, not even another woman can take that right away. This is also the gang that defies the binary en toto – embracing gender non-conformity from the top down (pun intended again, you’re beginning to catch on) and eschewing women-only “spaces” as anachronistic, and impertinent. The most telling fact about these gender-bending boundary-busters (I resisted using bustiers, okay maybe not) is that that refuse the label feminist, never agreeing to uniform philosophy or collectivism or goals. As for the 4th wave, it’s still in the incubation stages, rising up from the soils tilled by it’s mothers. A moving out from academia as Martha Rampton postulated to Elle Magazine, to the real world, a realigning of ideals from the lofty optimism of the third wavers to the world where the same threats that women have endured through the centuries are regarded haven’t changed – but they are the stuff, now of public discourse from rape and sexual abuse to homo & transphobia, Title IX, and maternity leave. Thanks Martha! Now, where was I? Oh yeah… where do I stand? “It’s never before this time been a better time to be a woman,” say the papers and pundits. We have Hil to thank for that, they say. Wha????? This is where my estrogen begins to boil. Call it the “outrage” enzyme that is the free radical circulating in my veins. “Time to be a woman?” This is where I can see what my elder “second wavers” were trying to put into the nation’s consciousness – the unconscious patriarchy that makes it seem as tho’ no toxic superfund will ever really scrub from our society. Our “time” thank you very much, was, is, and will always be. But tell that to the white male sector of our society, cuz honey, they ain’t going down without a fight. As many memes on the internet have said, the e-word,equality, to a man means that they will have to give up a portion of what they now enjoy. It’s so deep that most have confused treating us like a lady as already going one giant leap beyond equality – and keeping us on the pedestals that each constructs “for us” takes so much of their conscious and (unconscious) time that, (maybe if you squint) you can almost see why. Wait did I just go third wave on you? Or rather me? Do boys “just be boys” and we just shake our heads, love them and smile? Do we not wear low cuts so as to not provoke, distract, or “send the wrong message” them? Get me going second wave again! Isn’t this fun? No. it’s… well, the worst I can say, it’s disheartening. Which, in my world, is the mostest, absolute worstest evil of them all. Something that forcibly removes the heart from its rightful place in all things, is the detail in the devil. Disheartening in the same way that black parents have to have ”the talk” with their children, particularly their sons, about how to conduct themselves when they get stopped by the police (they will) so they don’t die. How four-letter word is that? More to point, how disheartening is that? Yes, we as women have been given an abridged version of the talk (call it the talk-light, a third less murder than our regular beer) since time immoral (SIC). Don’t walk alone at night. Carry a rape whistle and mace – the boogie-MEN are out there and just because we’re taught to be paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get us. This is brought to us by the letter R for reality. And nobody thinks this is wierd? Am I right? We are raised in fear. To fear. By Fear. And could we blame us? Because, given that not all anyone is anything, boys (notice the use of words here) are all we hope they are not. Men, the mature version of said group in question, are everything we hope they are. And here’s why we separate the men from the boys… The trouble comes when they choose to be the one and never the other. This happens when Judges decide that “he’s punished himself enough already, so six months for rape is more than enough” and “Ol’ Judgie-pie” actually thought he would get away with it. That ‘Ol Judgie-pie” thought he was above moral, ethical or even… societal outrage is exactly the problem. This dude didn’t even think it was a problem – and when public outcry jacks up like a set wave, he ducks from the ire, his defense becomes the issue rather than his f**king stupidity. And he will be allowed to slink away… and her rape will be a festering scar… on her. On us. A scar that we will all have that will make that limb a little less limber, a little less open for a hug, a liitle more disheartened for the next woman. So, hopefully by now, you can see my problem. I do know how a Lacrosse team could not only gang up on a woman but try to hide it and then get help hiding it, from their fathers and uncles. I have been in the room where all the young dudes got to laugh and joke about “her” or “them” with a dialect that has its own punchlines that need no set-up, a learned language of privilege and manifest destiny that defies logic. And I have watched as some of the women around me smiled thru gritted teeth for the few unfortunate times they found themselves in those rooms, and yes, I have also been mystified by the rare instances when there were sisters who seemed to embrace the misogyny and sexism, either as a survival mechanism or as… I dunno what. I confess that I must work to harbor no judgment for my sisters in any of those categories – after all, I myself know only too well what we’re all trying to protect ourselves from. My armor was success, yours could be whatever you choose The fact that we have to protect ourselves is the issue. But. I do know what we’re dealing with. I do know that the mere fact that we have an ism to call our own is the disheartening part. Yes, I have an issue that we have to have feminism at all. But honey, it ain’t feminism’s fault. In fact, as I’ve demonstrated above, the only fault this girl can see is when feminism divideswomen. But, the question I started with, which wave does this girl ascribe to, is as of this paragraph still unanswered… and maybe it’s because I can see the thread that got us to here. And it could also be that at this stage of my life, I am smart enough to know what I don’t know and hopeful enough not to care? A bit recklass maybe… Guilty as charged. But it’s where my years of being raised with privlege and to have privilege, makes me a little sharper at where society’s boundaries are… and therefore where the weak spots are. Which makes me a most inconvenient woman. (You knew I’d get the firsties back in the game, right?) Next time, My Womanifesto… All my love – Scottie Jeanette Christine Madden |
Details
Scottie Jeanette MaddenScreenwriter, Author, Cook and Lover. Author of "Getting Back To Me, from girl to boy to woman in just fifty years" & "Recklass In The Kitchen" a year of light, laughter & love... oh. and food! Archives
August 2020
Categories |