Destroyer of Worlds

I wrote this poem during one of the dark days…you out there, you cisgendered, please please open your heart and listen.

You literally do not know what it is like to be NULL, to be NOT and naught…

That doesn’t mean that you cannot feel hurt, pain, despair, depression…but at least you can be at home in yourself.

For transgender people, this is something that we have never ever experienced, that feeling of belonging to ourselves…

I am asking for your kindness, if you could find it within yourself to be kind…to not call us trannies or shemales or freaks, etc…and to not assume that we all just want sex so we are doing these perverted things.

It is so much more basic than that.

Anyway…here is the poem…
Smoke is a metaphor here (clue alert lol!!) for Hope, for Love, for acceptance, for Being…
smoke is the revenant released from wood by fire…
ponder it.

Destroyer of Worlds

Smoke is gone,
dispersed on unknown
Winds of Strange Terror and Havoc…
and Abandon.

Acrid scents that once
stirred memories of
Happy hearth
and hale health,

now just
lament of torched heart
and rejected soul
I mourn, I grieve,
and keen from the loss,

my voice
a soundless scream,
my throat ripped
by silent strain
to utter no noise while
my heart shrieks

Ahhh…
trees bend and move,
and grasp and grapple
but Smoke twists…
flows…and passes thru,
ghost of some future happy hope…
alas that phantom hope

Smoke has gone
and I am ruined
forever marked
and branded
with loss.

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Les Séparés

Les Séparés

N’écris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m’éteindre.
Les beaux étés sans toi, c’est la nuit sans flambeau.
J’ai refermé mes bras qui ne peuvent t’atteindre,
Et frapper à mon coeur, c’est frapper au tombeau.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. N’apprenons qu’à mourir à nous-mêmes.
Ne demande qu’à Dieu . . . qu’à toi, si je t’aimais!
Au fond de ton absence écouter que tu m’aimes,
C’est entendre le ciel sans y monter jamais.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. Je te crains; j’ai peur de ma mémoire;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire:
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas. Je te crains; j’ai peur de ma mémoire;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas!

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire:
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.

N’écris pas!

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Hobson’s Choice

This poem is about that place where you just cannot win in a relationship…if you do not speak, you allow the person to harm them-self with selfish actions and attitudes…but if you do speak, they will be hurt by the hard truth that they have been awful pills…

My partner just went thru one of these…

Hobson’s Choice

Speaking never says what hearts are crying
Mouths cannot explain the bloody truth
Thoughts forbidden breaking, blasting, flying
Diving after foolishness of youth.

Actions done but done with such politeness
Explanations stacked up like cord wood
Other deeds committed in rich rashness
Raging in the tempests of no good.

What’s greater wrong, the rudest indiscretion
the revelation of a hungry heart
or blank indifferent lack of comprehension
of any wrong or false step or misstart.

i do not know, i do not see, no i do not
have any good in me, no i do not.
To speak is to confront and thus to lose out
but silence is to choke a spirit’s shout.

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The Whore We Am

I recently posted the first part of the story of the woman caught in the act of adultery, and we left off with our heroine/victim/criminal face down in the dirt, and Jesus…you know the Guy…the only One without sin, and thus the one person who by right could cast the first stone…that guy.  He was knelt in the dirt beside her and gently shaking her, rousing her from her stupor of broken, desperate despair and empty lonely barrenness.

He asked her where were her accusers?  And when it finally penetrated her paralyzed mind, she hurriedly gave a harried look around, and saw…

……….no one……except the One who was without sin.

Jesus smiled, and I am totally certain that His eyes glistened with the tears of compassion and love for her…I am sure that He identified with and empathized with her pain and sorrow and desperation…after all, He knew that He would be accused of being a “religious whore” and “caught in the act”, and He knew the pain He would endure, all so we could be in the dirt before Him as the woman was, naked and ashamed…

….and unaccused!

She looked back to Him, and He asked her “Did even one of them accuse you?” And she mumbled, barely audibly, “No”.

And He sat awhile, writing…have you ever wondered what He wrote?  I think He was writing her name, and that He loved her.

But after a bit, He told her “Then neither do I accuse you.  Go your way…and sin no more.”

And that was that.

Now…flash forward a bit, to an important dinner at the home of a wealthy religious leader who threw a dinner party in the attempt to win favor with Jesus, and standing in his own social circle.  They were at the table, eating…

…and suddenly there was an intruder who broke in, and rushed to the feet of Jesus and threw herself down at His feet…

…weeping…

…sobbing…

…and she unbound her hair and cried on his feet, murmuring under her breath nearly incomprehensibly (I think it was “thank you” over and over again).  She got his feet completely wet with her tears, and then used her unbound hair to dry them off…all over…completely.

The leader was highly offended. He knew this woman…she was the town whore, and he had heard rumors that she had even been caught in the very act!!  He hated her for intruding into his house, and for interrupting the dinner party.  And he was also beginning to despise Jesus, feel contempt for him, because he was supposed to be a prophet, and if he were, he would know just what manner of evil was touching him.

But Jesus did know…who she was, and what the leader was thinking…

So He asked a question of the leader…

…”Suppose there are 2 people, and one owes $10.00, and one owes $1,000,000.00?  Suppose that neither one has the means to pay, and then further suppose that the one who is owed decides to forgive each one’s debt.  Now…which of the 2 people will love the man who forgave the debt more?”

The leader was so caught up in his offense that he totally missed the flinty gleam in Jesus’s eyes…and he roughly and blithely answered, “Oh, I suppose the one who was forgiven the million.”

BAM! Fish on!!  Jesus then gently but sternly rebuked this man, reminding him that the man had not washed His feet, or shown any kind of gratitude to Jesus, but rather had sought to enhance his own social standing, while this woman had washed His feet with her very tears and dried them with her hair…

And He ended with this:  he who is forgiven much, loves much…and he who is forgiven little loves little.

Now…we are all forgiven much…but we are also blind to that, and it takes a work of grace to perceive just how much we are truly forgiven for…

Grant us the grace to see how great our debt, that we can then be set free to love even more than we owe.

My Heart a Book of Love

My Heart a Book of Love

A book of love, composed by stilted hand
And tongue, stilled by True Beauty’s Blessed Face
Ah! Crippled yet compelled to rise, to stand
And take my heart and blood and make my case.

But ’twere ink blood, and tongue a fearsome sword
I’d be dry, drained before I’d scarce begun
To transcribe my desire and cut the cord
That binds my soul to earth’s dark woeful run.

A  thousand swains, a thousand thousand more
Slain by this tongue become the sword of love
Would give but just a drop of ink, no more
The blood of every poet’s not enough!

Doomed if I write, doomed if I do not write!
Ah Blessed Doom! I yield to your sweet Light.

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The Woman Caught in Adultery

I am thinking this morning of a woman who lived long ago…a woman caught in adultery.

In the very act.

She was dragged by her hair thru the streets, naked, weeping, screaming.

By men of so called righteous character and religious standing (not a lot has changed there over the years, the white-washed tombs!).

She was thrown at the feet of the One person on the planet who had the power over sin, but not as an offering, not to be healed…but as bait.

Objectified and made the personification of their own lust and self-loathing, they sought to use her to trap Him into an act of evil, an act that would join him into their religious system of oppression and abuse and control.

They threw the law into His face, like a handful of glass shards and demanded that He rule regarding the consequences for her.

She lay in the dust, face down, and tried to die inside on the spot…willing herself to non-being but only achieving that wretched state of being filled with her failure to the brim and overflowing…her brokenness, her loneliness, her rejection, her bruises all raised their voices in a cacophony of rage against the fact that she dared desire something better and more than what she had…and what she didn’t have.

Then, she tasted the dirt with her tongue, and realized that dirt tasted better than life and she gave herself to oblivion…

But He just sat there and stared at the monsters who, bloated and puffed up with rage and hatred and religious pride strutted around like erect raping cocks seeking any orifice that they could ravage and leave their caustic acid behind rendering each place barren.

His eyes saw…SAW…and then He turned to the dust and started writing in the dust with a finger.

Oh finger of God you write in our dust daily, you redeem our days with your touch, you humble yourself and draw near to us in our pique, our pride, our hurt and lonely lies!

The monsters were silent, and then again clamoured for a ruling…

His famous words…Let He who is without sin cast the first stone.

We have thrown that phrase at each other in self-justification for our own selfishness, thinking we can hide behind it to do what we want since everyone else has fallen short…

But what He was really doing was claiming the right that is His by LAW!  He was telling these mind f***ers, these heart rapers to get the f*** away, because He was there…the one without sin…and it was HIS RIGHT, HIS PLACE…to cast the first stone.

And then He was silent again…and wrote…

He writes today in the dirt of my heart, in the dust of the floor of my lonely and bereft spirit as I lay and eat dirt and seek oblivion, seek escape from my prison of days…

The monsters got bored…no pain to eat, no life to suck, no hearts to rend…until it was just her in the dirt, naked…bruised and torn…a hot mess of despair.

And then He touched her shoulder, with a hand that would later be rent, His heart already rent for her and flowing to her, and He got her attention and asked her where were her accusers?  Where?

She didn’t even know He was there, they were not there…she didn’t even know SHE was there, or where there WAS…

But she looked up and saw him, and nothing else…

If you want to know the end of her story, keep reading here…

But for now, understand this:  Redemption is real.  It comes from Love, and love comes from the one who writes in the dust, and has since time began.

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No Roadmaps Now

One last post for now

No Roadmaps Now
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You are going the same place
you always were.  We are…
all of us going there.

Blows rain down in cloudburst clamour
We are nails…we get pounded.
“God pounds his nails” the character said.

But it’s in your face now
It is in your gut, gripping and gnawing
Who will you listen to now? The fear? The pain?

Their song is always the same…threats, mocking laffs
Rinse repeat, booga booga boo!
Their voices have no power but what you loan them!

And you need all your power to yourself.  Dare you empower yourself?
Dare you look past the prejudices, the religious fig leaves, the uncertain awkward fears
of the many who swim on the surface?  Their lack does not change the available!!

Look not inside, for there you see
the dandelions…harmless in appearance, but the slightest puff
and they spread thru you…and clone themselves
Until you are no longer a rose but one big dandelion.

Look not around to others…they are faithfully what they are…UNABLE.
you have no roadmap, you have no footsteps to follow
But you DO have a COMPASS…a SEXTON…
Instruments of old to navigate by Unseen and Signifiers.

You have a sigil…but it is called FAITH
So get you up in the morning…sing
Wash your face. Sing
Choose your life today…Sing
Control what you can, and all else hits the umbrella of SING.

Blaze me a trail baby…for I am on the same path.
My body doesn’t know it yet.
And along the way I will catch up to you
We will walk together, hand in hand into that night…

but fear not, cus I know the One who has overcome that night
and walks in Day forever
Call out! There is no roadmap baby
Follow your heart…walk on the water!
What is there to lose?

Only fear and pain.

Sadness over how people do not deal with things

I am sad tonight, as I watch the aftermath of someone who is headstrong and stubborn and refuses to actually understand the love they are being given.

This poem is about that:

None So Blind

When looking thru the lense of self you find
A singular defining of your mind
By one and only one stark measurement:
How it affects your fate, your detriment.

Narcissus rules the day and speaks aloud
To push a reasoned balance to the cloud
Of flowry deception and flattering ruin
While pride conspires to mix a bitter brewing.

Alas, all others get reduced to nonce
When glimpsed thru that dread mirror even once.
But in the end it isn’t they that go
But just the selfish, and they do not KNOW!!!

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On Well Trod Paths For The First Time

Walking in well trod paths, lined with costume jewelry, and
Mardi Gras Beads and party favors from last Chinese New Year.
Seeing what I have always seen? Am I?
Tin foil stars and Kmart Christmas ornaments,
and yard sale poems on plywood and velvet.
I know what they all say already……..

…but…wait, whaaa?
What did that one say??
OH!! Pearls, and emralds came from the Universe’s navel!
Wait…what did THAT one say?
Omg…Jewels and riches, and royal clothes.
Stupid me…I walked this path so often that I only saw what I had forgotten I saw!!

Seeing the forget is horrible, void.
But now I have crossed that thin line
and Damascus is in the rear view
and scales are gone
and I am flying, oh god…

Now I can see

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Canyons and Butterflies

Long now have I considered the presence of absence
In canyons…majestic by what is not,
Stunning in what is gone.
And yet, talk and rail and howl, Charissa…
Canyons answer not back, or if they
Do they speak only echoes.
Canyons have changed me, but not I them,
Not I…puny, and wratihlike to their Absent Presence.
Fool! Stop explaining!
Stop handing out Rosetta Stones
To entities which do not care to read
But rather would gather voices and then
Speak echoes.

But then, in the shimmering sunlight,
Flitting by, white gossamer
Butterfly bumbling, bouncing
Break dancing in mid air
Heedless of the yawning gulf
Simply floats over the precipice
And is…itself, singing in flight
Speaking by being
Uncaring who hears, sees or knows
And LAUGHING at the canyon-like boasts of
The presence of what isn’t there being best,
Better than the absence of what is there.
Canyons and butterflies…
My polarity extremes.

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The Most Faithful Lover

The Most Faithful Lover

You there…always
As long as I can remember
My first sensations, first dashing plunging
Baptism into this world.
Throbbing
Smashing
Lurking
Slinking
Smiling
Pitying
Accompanying

Always there…du dum. du dum. du dum.
Keeping time, making time, marking time
Rhythm of your horned hard and callous crusted
Feet.

You have kept me from death
Though your price is high
you have brought me to life
Heeding nary a cry

And now, grown
you sit with me comfortably
At peace, and I with you
My most faithful lover…

Pain

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Publishing some articles regarding Transgender issues

What follows is an article that I ran across some weeks back which grapples with some of the issues of being transgender.  I hope anyone who comes here will read it with care and a tender heart.

Remember:  the suicide rate in the trans community is over 40%, and that is just with people who are admitted trans…we really do not know how many other trans people who are not out have despaired and killed themselves.

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‘Every Single Family in the World Is a Nontraditional Family’

Hope ReeseMay 3 2013, 8:35 AM ET

Emily Walker/flickr

At 42, James Boylan was married to a woman he loved. They lived in Waterville, Maine with their two sons. Boylan taught English at Colby College.

Then he became Jenny. Never at home in a male body, Boylan underwent gender reassignment surgery and wrote about it in her 2003 memoir She’s Not There: A Life in Two Genders. Her new book, Stuck in the Middle with You: A Memoir of Parenting in Three Genders, reflects on what her transition to a woman means as both a parent and a partner in her family, which has remained united. We spoke about what she’s learned about women, how she and her wife Deedie navigate intimacy, and what her experience tells us about the ever-changing concept of the American family.


Can you talk about the transgender spectrum?

Transgender is a way of talking about all sorts of gender-variants as if we had something in common with each other. Gender-queer people, cross-dressers, transsexuals, and drag queens don’t really have all that much in common. Ru Paul who, when the wig is off, is a gay man, doesn’t have anything in common with Amanda Simpson, who was appointed in the U.S. Commerce Department by Obama as the first transgender presidential appointee. They might not have anything in common with someone like, say, Leslie Feinberg or Kate Bornstein, who are more interested in the political aspect. They are very different.

Is being transsexual genetic? Is there a biological component?

The science is getting better, but it’s not especially conclusive. Trans-sexuality seems to have its genesis in the sixth week of pregnancy when fetuses form brain structures usually associated with that of the opposite sex. It might have to do with the hormone bath that the fetus is in or it might be something else entirely. I don’t know if it’s genetic, but it does seem to be neurological. It’s not related to anything you grow up with. It doesn’t have to do with how your parents treated you. And it doesn’t have anything to do with whom you’re attracted to. Although sexuality and gender overlap in such interesting ways that it’s easy to get confused.

What are the biggest misconceptions people have about transsexuals?

The hardest thing is for people who aren’t transsexual to be compassionate and have the imagination to recognize that this is the defining crisis of someone’s life. If you’re trying to live in a body that you’re not wired for, it’s like paddling upstream against the current in a tiny boat. Because people who are not transsexual have never had this problem, they assume that it must not really be a problem. If you’re not trans, you wake up in the morning and don’t worry what sex you are. For people who do have to worry, people for whom it is a constant, agonizing heartbreak, others think it’s funny or strange. It’s a measure of our compassion as human beings. Can you understand the problems of someone who is not you? I didn’t change genders because I was really gay and couldn’t accept it. I didn’t change genders to be more feminine, quite frankly. It’s not about femininity, it’s about femaleness. It’s not about playing with dolls or making brownies or whatever cliché of femininity we have. It’s about finding peace in your own skin.

How has the media played a role in shaping the way the public responds to transsexuals?

I was on the Larry King Show in 2005 and remember having a conversation about the caption below my name saying “professor” or “author.” They ended up using “had sex change operation.” I thought, really?

Why aren’t there many role models for transsexuals?

Gay people who are out increasingly spend much of the rest of their lives going about their business. Transsexual people, if they come out in a public way, more often than not fade into the woodwork in two or three years. A lot of trans people “go stealth” which means that you transition and move somewhere and don’t tell people about your past. But if sexual transition is marked by seamlessly integrating into the culture, there aren’t visible transsexual people of an older generation. If you think of trans people you know, it’s mostly people on the street who don’t pass well. But if a transsexual does pass, you don’t know.

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How central is gender to identity? Are you the same person underneath?

When transsexuals go through transition, the great question is: Who am I going to be on the other side? Will I be some completely new person? The great surprise is no, of course you’re not. I went through the adolescent period that transsexuals go through, feeling out what parts of the new personality were going to be the keepers. There are probably some things that are a little different, but I’m not conscious of them. You still have the same history, sense of humor, parents, and children as you had before. What I don’t have is secrets. It’s not so much going from male to female as going from a person who had secrets to a person who doesn’t have secrets anymore. The big thing is, I wake up in the morning and don’t have to think about gender.

When Deedie gave birth to your boys, did you re-question your sexual identity? Or did you think, “Ok, I’m a father now”?

Yeah, I felt, I’m a father. Any ambivalence about being a man I have to let go of because it’s now about something bigger than me. When they were born I thought, “Okay cowboy, you better get in character here!” And I’ll tell you what: If I could’ve pulled off that stunt, I would have. But I wonder if I could’ve given them a better life. I think maybe all of our lives are better, full of more surprise and gratitude as a result of having to find our way through this domain.

When you first came out, did men and women react differently?

Absolutely. Women, generally, were very welcoming. Almost from the get-go, women were like, “Welcome to the sisterhood!” One friend from Ireland wrote, “Welcome! It’s bloody brilliant being a girl.” But even the hippie, groovy boys I knew from college were very uncomfortable. Some of those relationships have never really been repaired. There was much more negotiation that had to be done. And some of them may never have quite accepted me as a woman but kind of play along with me, which I find insulting. The women were interested in the transition and wanted to talk about womanhood and gender. And maybe women are more accustomed to knowing that gender is a difficult world that has to be navigated whereas the guys didn’t want to hear about. It might also be that a lot of my close male friends were upset that I’d kept something hidden. You can see how they’d respond with disbelief and a sense of sadness that they didn’t know me in the way they thought they did. So it could’ve been a sense of loss.

What did you learn from your father about how to be a man? And how have you passed that on to your boys?

The things my father taught me are very different from what I’m teaching my boys. A lot of them have to do with silence and being strong for other people and not being particularly emotional. I think my sons are more emotional and more loving as a result of having both Deedie and me as parents.

He died before you came out—how do you think he would’ve reacted?

He wouldn’t have liked it one bit. He belonged to a certain class of men who, if you have a problem, you keep it to yourself. If someone in the family has a divorce, it’s a shame we don’t speak of.

What have you learned about women since you’ve become one?

No one goes from male to female in this culture in order to get a better deal. I immediately noticed downsides—both in terms of little things like not being listened to in the same way, being less of an authority figure in the classroom than I used to me, to feeling vulnerable. I used to be fearless, I would go anywhere. And I’ve felt threatened by men, especially when I was out with the band, playing at sketchy bars late at night. So I feel more vulnerable in the world. But guess what? All of these problems belong to me. They come with the territory. I won’t make light of any of them, but they’re a fair price to pay for being yourself.

What about the positives?

I cry freely and I laugh freely. I don’t hesitate to express love for people, and I live in a much more emotionally volatile place now. Ninety percent of the time, it’s a really good thing.

When you were a father, you were “goofy, feckless”—and now, as their mother, you nag more. Can you talk about the shift?

I wonder whether, to some degree, it’s cultural. Whether men have more room to play in. I’m still the goofier of the two parents. But changing genders is a harrowing experience. It left me sobered up in the world. And the older my sons have gotten, the more dangerous the world seems. When they were little, I could protect them by feeding them and holding them. But when they get in an automobile and drive away, there’s nothing I can do to save them. In some ways, it’s not only gender—it’s also the passage of time.

How have you and Deedie negotiated co-parenting?

We had a pretty egalitarian marriage even back in the day. Early in the transition, we were on new ground. We’d both be in the ladies room at the same time—that was weird. Or there’d be two women’s blouses in the hamper. But we both cook, both nurture the boys. Deedie was a soccer coach for years. So we were never socked in traditional gender roles. I think that’s true of a lot of couples. What it means to be a husband or wife has changed.

The gender of the parents means nothing compared to the love that they bring to each other and to the kids

You say that part of being a man is “to be silent.” Has becoming a woman allowed you to be more open?

Yes. My job as a dad, I felt, was protector. Sometimes you keep your family out of trouble by keeping your mouth shut. A lot of women would disagree, but a lot of men would probably say, “Well yeah.” I thought I was protecting my family by not being public about being trans. I carried a lot of sadness around, but thought I was taking the bullet for my family. I’ll bear the sadness if it keeps us from having a really weird life. I think our family is more vulnerable now. But we’ve been mostly really blessed. We’ve seen how good people can be. Many people I expected to lose when I came out stood by me. I married Deedie because I thought love would “cure” me. And I was cured by love—just not the way I thought. Finally someone loved me enough to stand by me when I went through this.

Your title states that this book is about life in “three genders”—what’s the third?

That’s the in-between period I visited in the heart of transition, when people perceived me as male or female based on random cues, like whether I had earrings in, or whether my hair was tied back. But you don’t have to be transgender to know that there’s plenty of room in the definitions of “maleness” and “femaleness” and if you think of gender as a wide spectrum, with Arnold Schwarzenegger at one end and Christina Hendricks at the other, well, most people don’t live in those extremes. Most people fall somewhere along the spectrum. That’s the great thing. It should be about living anywhere along that spectrum that feels like it’s you.

You write, “Every single family in the world is a nontraditional family.” How has the idea of a “traditional” American household evolved?

Increasingly, Americans seem to be able to incorporate all kinds of difference into their lives. There’s more acceptance of gay marriage, kids have friends whose parents are gay. Our culture has become more diverse and more accepting. I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna because I know how kids are bullied. And I just read about a transgendered woman in Ohio who was murdered. It’s a very tough world for transgendered people. But I do believe that things are slowly getting better.

What can your experience teach us about how children grow up in non-traditional households?

I’m not saying it doesn’t make any difference whether it’s a man and a woman, or two women, or a single parent. The differences in families affect how children develop. But the gender of the parents means nothing compared to the love that they bring to each other and to the kids.

You claim, “Motherhood and fatherhood are no longer unalterable binaries.” Do you think we are now at a turning point in history where roles are being rewritten?

As long as people keep loving each other, there will be families with two parents and some kids. As long as those people have different characters, they’re going to do different things as parents. It will be more a result of their character than the feeling that they have to be a certain way because they’re male or female. We’re seeing lots of dads staying home and being nurturers and a lot of women in the workforce. As long as there’s love in the family, the specifics of each person’s job doesn’t really matter, does it?

Growing up as a boy, did you desire men sexually?

No, never.

Did that happen as a result of your transition to a woman?

I would still define myself as a lesbian. A lot of the trans women I know, if they’re single, will check out men to see what that’s all about, but will often return to women, if they were attracted to women in the first place. There’s no generalization you can make about what people will do after transition. Post-transition I began to see men differently. I was able to see what was cute about men, what was great about them, to appreciate them with a sense of love and gratitude. I don’t know if that’s quite been the same as lust. My polestar has always been Deedie and my sense of desire has never been very far from her.

Did your desire for her change when you changed genders?

It did. Orgasm as a woman is very different, and sex drive is different. All those things are true. But the object of all that desire for me, very specifically meaning Deedie, hasn’t changed.

There’s a heartbreaking moment in your book when the ball drops on New Year’s Eve and Deedie won’t kiss you. How have you negotiated the loss of sexual intimacy in your relationship?

I don’t want to be glib about this serious issue because there are times when not having a more vigorous intimate relationship drives me crazy. It’s an issue we wrestle with. But all the love and the time we spend together and the family more than makes up for that. I don’t spend a lot of time staring out the window wiping the tears away. I think that, in some ways, the relationship Deedie and I have might be more familiar to people who have been married for 25 or more years than you might think. When we first went through transition we weren’t sure if we could get through it, but now it doesn’t seem particularly hard.

Is there any part of being a woman that you think you’ve missed out on?

There are some things I’m never going to learn. Like a French braid. I’m never going to know how to do that. Screw that. You know what’s funny—hormones had such a dramatic effect on me early on. My first four or five years in the female sex I had a period of looking like an attractive young woman. That was really cool. But my body has caught up with its chronological age. To some degree, I’m sorry I missed out on some of the party of being in this body when I was young. But it’s beyond silly to look behind your shoulder and wish things could’ve been otherwise. My life as a boy was not a bad life. I was really a very lucky person. I’d published novels, I fell in love, I had children, I got a teaching job in Maine that I love. And then I went through the transition and I’ve had this life. It’s pretty hard not to be grateful. I’ve seen things that most men and most women have never gotten to see. The thing that I thought used to be the great curse turned out to be a gift.

Your community has been, for the most part, incredibly supportive of your transition. If you lived in a different part of the country would this have been a harder experience?

I think it would’ve. I think some people don’t think I’m aware of exactly how lucky I’ve been, and I can tell you—I am aware. It does have something to do with living in Maine, where people respect your privacy a little bit. It has a lot to do with race and social class and education. But it’s also sheer luck. Nothing bad has ever happened to my children, and very few bad things have ever happened to me.

It’s interesting when you point out that a lot of your friends have divorced while you and Deedie have stayed together.

What has brought Deedie and me together is not my being a woman but us going through something that was very hard and having to rely on each other. The loss of her sister and then the loss of my own mom were harrowing and sad. Those moments teach you the depth of your relationship, the depth of your love with someone. When we first started going through transition, people said—”Oh, you need to divorce, you need to marry men.” The idea that the two of us would choose each other didn’t occur to them. And as the people who told us to get a divorce have themselves gotten divorced, we think people should be careful about the advice they give. One thing people said was “oh those poor children”—and now I’ve got a freshman at Vassar and an 11th grader who was just inducted into the National Honor Society, who was singing and dancing on a stage last week, who builds beautiful origami, who’s a nationally ranked fencer. Both of my boys are delightfully funny, smart kids. When people say “What about your boys” I want to say, “What about your boys?”

You interviewed authors about their experiences as parents and children. What did you learn?

The experience of being a child exists on such a wide, wide spectrum. You look at Edward Albee whose resentment of his adoptive parents still simmers. He’s still angry at these people for not understanding him. Rick Russo whose father wasn’t around at all, always going to the track or two the bar, loves his father and forgives him. There are so many different experiences of childhood and parenting that it’s remarkable we’re talking about the same thing. We should be grateful for all of it and spend less time worrying where we fit in.

This interview is edited for length and clarity.

Battered Ship of Love

Battered Ship of Love

boats

Seemingly shabby
and worn
Appearances of abandonment and leafless
apple-less branches.
But look…with eyes, with heart,
and see a vessel…the only one which
can cross Styx

Love has slain the ferryman, and
flows to hearts, two hearts
and weaves…turns straw into gold
Have you courage to turn from the shiny clipper
from the santa maria, the pinta and nina?

Francis Drake and pirates rove the seas, and perils wait
but
this ship is small (NOT)…shabby (silky and homey)
and passes unnoticed under the arrogant eyes
and takes me to her and her to me
and we to the land that’s beyond the sea

Rose behind the Sun, light behind the stars
Shine on us and lead us home

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Sail With Me?

Sail with me?

In boats, empty yet not abandoned…
but pregnant with empty
waiting for
us

Sail with me? Dare to take your
Courage in hand, your heart
in the grip of grace and
step out into the
boat?

Vistas yawn, lazily, beckoning with
Misty tendrils and gauzy contrails
and I wonder if there would be
Joys, happinesses, long pleasant
silences as we
sail

Sunny and warm and snug
Sail with me?

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The Vines

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Poetry is woven into the warp and weft of this creation.  The balance of sunrise and sunset, the pace of the tides, the trill of the birds and the rustle of the winds in the trees.

On it goes…everything in harmony, or dissonance yet in time and rhythm.   Let my first written post be a poem I wrote called The Vines.  It is a poem about humans, really…about anyone who wants to become…more!  Better!  Higher!

The Vines

They are tortured, the best ones…
the vines
Tortured!
Planted in skeins of shitty shallow soil.
Plopped into rocky ruins of ancient volcanic thrashing
and bucking.

They Thirst!
DIPSO!! SITIO!!
They will not drink vinegar, ruined wine

But instead they dig
Down
Roots compelled, FORCED past rocky reams
and veinous minerally walls.
For moisture.

The Vinedresser is compelled…not by cries
but by VISION and the future
of the wine to come
from the best ones, the tortured ones
the blessed ones
Forced to grow and be fruitful.

On that Day the vintage will be poured
and in humble amazement the vines will
ask why…why so blessed, why so rich
why so wet and every thirst quenched,
and stoked…

On that Day

On the Shore

On the Shore

Brrr…I am a lil skert, starting this blog.  It is the very first baby step towards being out as who I really am, the me that I was born to…I am frightened, and yet so excited all at once.  I love this picture, because it shows how I have always been…gazing out, yearning, standing off to the side, there but not there…and I like that there are 3 women down in the shelter.  They represent my core support…bless you ladies who love me with your hearts!

And I love that we are all surfers in this pic…waves are toys and funland rides to surfers, skimming along on stormy waters and dancing.

I have no idea where I will be in 3 months, in a year.  I have no idea who will be in my life besides the ones who are with me, and who will be out of my life.

May God give me grace to welcome all in, and never shut any out, and then I can have peace, knowing that I have lived in integrity and shalom, and that I am literally not responsible for the choices of others.

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