Our Tent On 2 Trees

I’ll tell you a secret, dear.
Let’s make this perfectly clear:
there are no secrets here, this year

Ouroboros
has been asunder rent
here in our own little tent.
Pish posh, we have no need
of eating our own tail,
we already recycle!

Instead, meet me here,
just big enough for us to sit
(but not stand, we learned
to eschew that when
we learned to not chew
our own tails).

Do you recall this place our tent is pitched…
on the bodies of two trees that were cut
from the nearby mountain and brought
in and stood up planted here?

Holding us on our platform so high
we must climb ladders, exhilarated by
heights unfolded, to sit serene
in settings spiritual and high
above the dirt and drama?

So many in our times
are bored with themselves
infected with the disease of self…
they look for things to fill
their inner emptiness
and it’s just over and
over more and more
again and again

Ouroboros

But we pray we are haunted
by moon-drenched thoughts
reflecting that Elsewhere,
filthy with light and love!

We have the sound of rivers
running in our veins
and the smell of wind
in our lungs and
in our flying hair
soaring on the wings
of our wild and precious life!

We pray in flutes and strings
and we wait answers
like fanfares blown
on trumpets of light
that sound like becoming,
like arriving…

For now though,
in our tent pitched
in the air on 2 trees
we take our tea and listen

to fragrant roses blooming,
to seaweed swaying,
to fish flashing
round rose pink ears
of shells (and always singing
the song of the sea),
to leaves stretching
luxuriously into
autumn splendour,

to singing silence
soft and low and
we finally understand why
Ouroboros so mistaken
is so named…

my mouth at your tail,
your mouth at mine,
and at last we are
our Our, our Us,
with no boredom
in the middles
and swelling reborn
again, here in
our tent on 2 trees.

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at 4:20

it’s ironic,
what the clock says
shouting and inexorable
without words.
the dazed and hazed
love that time…4:20.
i don’t know why,
the stuff they love
is just substance of illusions
in smoky vaporous air.

I’ve been up since 2:40,
and all I can think of is
how shuffling numbers
is so easy, and
everyone calls it different…

but that seltzer?
the one on the table,
left from last nite’s
waiting out the number changes
until it was time
to lay in bed awhile and
exercise my blinking muscles?
well, it’s still there,
and flat.

in the back hall i discovered
that my bike’s rear tire
was flat too,
so i repaired it,
examining inner tube,
looking for holes and patching
in that rough and sticky moment
of sandpaper and glue.

i think about you.

and i think about
the patches on my soul,
it’s unwieldy surface
littered with those bumps
and orange edges and
scratched surfaces from
the methods needed to
make the fix stick…

and it’s still serviceable,
i guess, but i will need
a new one soon.
easy enough, just
buy one with money…
right?
this one is still inflatable,
still pushes out tread
and fills sidewalls and
rolls on the road miles and miles
over rocks and nails
and miles…

but rides,
exhilarating or sweaty
eventually end up
in the back hall,
in the moment called 4:20

(or 2:40, or anything, pick a number
it’ll flip over and come up illusion)

and like that seltzer half finished,
set aside because
(it couldn’t touch that thirst)
it’s flat.

i edited my blog some,
worked on some drafts of
poems that were bumpy and rough,
and found their song in the midst
and that made me cry,
seeing them unknot and unknit
and breathe again, no holes
save that one which they sing out of.

god, what if
life was a great
wordpress
platform,
what if we
could open up
our editor and go back,
rewrite those
lines that went awry
unknot those
songs that choked,
patch those
rash tires flat,
share those
seltzers half drunk,
toasting ennui til every
drop was drained
and finished.

what if we could.

did i forget to mention
how i ran my fingers
round the inside of that tire
worn and used to be sure
what pierced it
was gone or removed?

(if you don’t do this you will just die on the same nail over and over)

anyway, i snagged them
bloody on glass
and screaming silent at 4:20.
but I got the culprit,
at least that one will
do none harm ever again,
that one will not
trouble the rough and bumpy
old patched tube.

so i got that going for me.

i hear those numbers
changing in the deafness
set upon us by the great sunder.
i think about my fingers
torn inside the tire
by the glass
and I think about my life,
a tire pierced and worn
over and again by glass,
by wire, by nail
and branch and bramble
and haunted by this
old and rough bumpy
tube patched and patched
and patched and…
yeah.

i got blood on my keyboard
from that glass that
cut me.

i think it got onto this poem, too.

i think it stains, it colors
all things, i think
i view the world thru blood-stained glasses.

and then i think about
you again
and I blink my
eyes wet again
and i wait for
another day,
another ride,
another changing of the
numbers that all might as well be

4:20

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Mama is Pretty Tall

Trans community can change minds by changing discourse – LA Times.

Oh Constance, I Love this article!!

It has a very similar p.o.v. to what/how/who I feel called to be and the manner in which I desire to influence and educate those people in my life who are most central to the overturning of an insufficient paradigm of bondage (the gender binary) and a harsh cruel paradigm of patriarchal privilege that enslaves both men and women.

To walk, my head held high, my inner self shining thru this shell like light thru a stained glass window…to be gracious in the face of ignorance and courageous in the face of misogyny…compassionate to the face of brokenness and kind to the face of need..to be resolute in the face of hatred and forgiving in the face of repentance.

Whew!  That is a tall order…but then again, my Mama is pretty tall…besides, it is the heart and soul of why I took the name Charissa Grace.

Check out the article, and then join my legions in the armies of Grace!

Love, Charissa

 

My Son Wears Dresses and That’s OK With Me | xoJane

My Son Wears Dresses and That’s OK With Me | xoJane.

Hi Constance…pretty sure I pressed this already?  But just in case I didn’t, here it is again.

Mama, please bless this father…a true confident and faithful man, who refused to be his child’s first bully.

Love, Charissa

I Do Not Believe…

…in random acts of kindness!  Nope.

There isn’t such a thing.

For kindness takes a choosing,
a mind awake, considering
the plight of those around it
upon their sainted journeys,
and then decisive offerings
of grace and mercy precious
and brilliant in this vale.

Acts of kindness?  YES!

These things are so becoming!

You can bestow a rare feast
and let the hungry knabble
or ravenously eat
partaking in the bounty
of heaven’s fruitful shores.

So jargle not the issue,
conflating act and ego
and thus smearing the message
and fumbling the missive…
but rather, look, intently!
And choose that timely moment
and single out the person
who’s glowing in that night
and then in joy, and generous
in heart and mind and spirit
let practice become habit,
and habit become purpose
and purpose become presence
of love unending there.

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Companion Of The Wind

When you listen to the wind
you hear the tales she tells you
and feel her history…
fragments of long ago,
of forests vast and tangled
and so you will rest,
lulled by her ebb and flow,
her soft and steady rise
and fall.

Earth breathes in winds, in gales,
ruddy scirocco blood-breaths,
wracking chinook coughs,
and mistrals making ways
and sprouting wings arising,
and gliding over gulfs
to delve in yester-caves…
and always Breezy Boras
exploring mountain-faces,
and touching them with fumbly
longing frantic fingers
like a bleak blind beauty
touching her own face
in pining sad mute envy
of such solid certain
there-ness, standing jagged
and heartbreaking in relief
against the yawning sky
and in the eye of Beauty’s
glad and graceful smile.

Wind is tinged, and tainted
in trees and ocean billows,
transformed by desert passage
and fired in blasts blazing
unmerciful and hot,
cured in baking, still fat
wallowing inferno
so ruthless in the sun,

the sun,
the always hot unblinking eye…and

she is tattooed there, fated
to carry always, always
those marks within her soul
that her song seeks to hide.

But in the night, tentative,
she will give up her tales,
if you listen…just, listen…
and let her story blow,
be patient with her trembling,
her clumsy-fumbly fingers
so frantic to form signals
in suestado signing sighs.

If…if you tarry…
give up the tempting refuge
of the wind’s soft thereness,
If you listen deep…
and hold your divine breath,
and taste the territories
of time and tears and turf
without correcting her
or limiting her longings,
without defining stories
and diminishing her witness
with the gentle vapors
of your long accustomed
familiar exhalations…

You’ll hear what she has touched
and has been touched by too,
you’ll taste currents of history
in what her eyes have seen
and what she has endured
in not ever being seen.
Then you will rise, graceful
and humble on her song,
her symphony of sorrow
and swelling sure salvation,
to dance unfettered in her
shamals and silver sharavs
of resignation gentle…
to move in mercy with her
side by side, companion
amidst that mummer’s trudge
in tracks worn, set in stone
and you will tarry with her

there…

All know her, but few find her,
and those who taste her philters
fewer still, and rare…

(for to taste is sacred,
to take the cup of knowing
no harbour and no home)

…but walking with the wind
well, that’s a very different
pilgrimage of presence…to
become her moving tether,
her undaunted deliverer…
If with her you walk,
you will find her voice speaking
things shared ever only
in the wind within
the wind and breath behind
her birth, her wander here…

and you will feature flowers
cascading midst your hair,
and find your cozy locks
flicked and feathered there
and stroked, caressed so tender
in her whisper-wander sighs
as her sign, her settled sigil
to affirm your place and presence
in the bosom of her deepest
precious longing breath

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Raising a trans child is not child abuse.

Raising a trans child is not child abuse...

Dear Constance…

It is hot, and sultry in the night.  I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and stumbled out to the lappy and I am sitting in the velvet thick wraps of heat and cool, dissipating, swelling, gaining strength and washing away.

I am thinking of the waves of years, like waves washed up onto the shores of my soul, and how those waves have all at once sculpted my edges and eroded my interface with the world…and yet left me untouched, in the deep hinterlands of identity and meaning.

I have always been drawn to the ocean, and its hungry sad roar, its insatiable throwing of itself onto the earth it loves, the constant assault on that mass which resists its efforts to billow over it, washing it down a hungry mouth and being unable to swallow such a juicy morsel…the high cliffs and stubborn trees, given shape and scope by winds and rains and time…and how time and the ocean are one and the same.

Always there.  Changing everything.  Changing nothing.

As I have worked to dig deeper and deeper into the roots and genesis of my origins, I have wondered…constantly…what would have happened if I had the chance to grow up in a time and place where being transgender was understood, accepted as something analogous to cleft palate or some other differently abled condition that we so easily and quickly address with modern medical understandings…could have been welcomed into that sphere that I was excluded from then, socialized and policed so heavily that even now, having walked out of that penitentiary of thought I find that I carry the prison bars within and they have managed to grow into the roots of my heart and entangle themselves there.

I am still in a cage, a horrorshow of entangled lies and terrible truths…lies regarding who I am…and truths silently standing in towering clarity of who I am not…what I am not, and what I always will be.  And I must keep walking forward.  The only thing that will keep me out of the penitentiary is forgetting what lies behind and pressing on towards the upward calling…

What ifs still linger though, and one of the greatest is what if my parents had truly known?  What if my classmates had truly known?  What if I had never been infected with the awful mentality that tells me I am ugly, and repulsive, and never shuts up even underneath smiles and during the recitation to myself ot the catechism of mental health?

If I could have had puberty blockers followed by the very hormones I am at long last taking which have brought me immeasurable inner peace and relief?

I will never know…but I see the efforts of people like my Hero, Kat over at Dandelion Fuzz, like so many (mostly) mothers and fathers who have grasped the simple basic truth that their child is a gift from God and needs only to be fed and watered, loved and nurtured to emerge as a unique and eternal embodiment of one facet of God’s heart…and I want to cry with relief that things are changing, and my prison is becoming like Alcatraz, shut down and decommissioned as inhumane and unprofitable.

And then I see the actions of wanna-be jailers, and listen to the wild and desperate cries of “gloom and doom, gloom and doom!”  They are now classifying the acceptance and active care of a trans-gender child as child abuse!

I guess to them the spankings I received were nothing more than loving efforts to keep me in line with who everyone else said I was?  The teasing I got just a jovial activity to “toughen me up and make a man outta me?”  The forever nights of turmoil workouts to empower me to have no emotions and feelings and end up with strong muscles to resist suicide and depression?  The guilt and shame that was thrown down on me from so-called people of God was merely the loving ministrations of “God’s Servants” to purify me and make me holy (read wholly oppressed and chained)?

No.

Constance, those things were child abuse!  I deal with the fallout to this day.

But I have posted this link to an article about them, about those like me, in hopes that you will know better what we have gone thru and what we face daily, and what is available to be our help…and also what we face from our accusers.

Stand in the gap?  Reach a hand, not of pity, but of support…and educate those you encounter whose minds are still chained to images of boogeymen and monsters.

In solemn longing,

Charissa

The Enemy Depression: are you an unwitting ally?

Constance, we see the results of depression brought home to us in the recent tragic death of well known public figure Robin Williams.  But what about the ones no one knows, around you?  Many of my friends have brought forth stories of relatives, acquaintences who succombed to its deadly siren song of release that is only a final tragic dissolution.

And, even more poignant, simply because of numbers and a vital extra lil addition of pure hate, is the plague of suicide that rests like a curse upon the shoulders of transgender people.  There is a post that says it well over at the blog The Girl Inside…you can check out the full thing there:

http://www.thegirlinside.com/tg/in-requium/ 

Let me quote a startling paragraph or two:

It is certainly well known within our community how prevalent the attempted suicide is among our brothers and sisters who are transgender. The most recent and best survey on the subject reports that 41% of surviving trans people surveyed reported having attempted to take their own life, and there’s no accounting for those who not only attempted and succeeded in that figure.

This in contrast to a rate among the general population .under 5%. Certainly compared to almost any demographic you might imagine, we relate to the phenomena of suicide. It is hardly possible to offer any new argument that has not already been offered as to why we should struggle against that temptation and not give into it, but more so it is perhaps adds a certain obligation to those of us who survive.

It is well understood by those who study such things that the incidents of actual psychological disorder among trans people (of the sort Williams may well have struggled against) is not significantly higher than in other populations but what is, is the sort of “environmental” depression that arises from the circumstances of your situation. Which is to say that when you know you are a member of a reviled community, one who is quite possibly going to be rejected by everyone you might reasonably expect to love you if they knew the reality of your heart and mind then you are prone to depression even to the point of suicide.

It is not enough that we resist giving in to temptation, rather it is incumbent upon us to step out of the darkness and into the light and challenge our society to build a culture that does not reject us for who we are.

As long as they are allowed to shame us, reviled was, and mock us then we will continue to bury members of our community who took their own lives.


Enough of that.

Well?  Constance?

Mental illness rates, psychological rates virtually identical, and yet 41 % of trans individuals have already attempted suicide?  I have heard stats that the general population’s suicide attempt rate is somewhere between 2 and 3 %.

How is this not blaring news?  If 41% of all middle schoolers were attempting suicide, or of all females were attempting suicide, imagine the furor.

But trans-individuals? Nah…tragic waste of a good man/woman in the first place, and thus they deserve what they get…right??

At ease in Zion…how does that taste?

Join me as an ally of transformation, and make your wealth rain down like spring rain.

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The Purpose of Poetry

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
 
Czesław Miłosz
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For Kat: My Friend, Sister, and in many ways my Hero

Mom confronts TERF bigotry aimed at her family | The TransAdvocate.

My friend Kat is a mom like this…Perhaps this article will not only educate you about a very specific form of trans-phobia, but show you the awesome power of a parent whose only lense for viewing their child is that of love.

Thanks Kat…

Your friend ‘Rissa

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Every Transsexual’s Right to Gender Confirmation Surgery – Dara Hoffman-Fox

Every Transsexual’s Right to Gender Confirmation Surgery – Dara Hoffman-Fox.

Hi Constance!  Please check out this great and informative article about transgender people’s right and need for surgery…there is a measurable and documentable positive effect and outcome in the vast majority of cases.

I post these sorts of things, because I remember when I was ignorant, uninformed, and afraid of my own self without knowing it, and I conflated “Drag Culture” with trans-reality.

I figure if I can help you to avoid my mistakes, you can be part of a solution of kindness, acceptance, and encouragement.

Blessings!

Charissa

WAVES

When You Weren’t Looking

I pulled a funny rubberface, and played waggle-ears and goggli-eye
when you weren’t looking.
The birds saw, and hopped, skipped and ran to tell the king
but I shushed them, cuz you were looking.
After you turned, I cheeky smiled and pointed behind my palm at you
and then they rained upwards to water a hungry blue sky and
fill the empty air with the symphonic sound of wings with secrets

and I watched, waved and sighed, and wanted to go
when you weren’t looking

When you weren’t looking, I checked out your legs, slim and faithful
steady, temple gates and castle pillars, twins of presence and joy.
I saw them move (oh!), saw them work faithful on the outside
and put Joffrey to shame with simple knee bends and prayers

and I raised my hands in ecstasy
when you weren’t looking.

Your plate was like a wagon-train unguarded, and french fries were the cattle lowing
so I snuck up slow and careful and snagged a handful
when you weren’t looking.
they tasted like the grapes of Pericles!  Like sheep roasting in Plato’s cave
and I moaned in delight when you could hear me, but only
when you weren’t looking.

I would have despaired, this life being what it is and me being what I’m not
and turned aside, to cliffs and pits and gnashing jagged teeth upon which
to founder, but that would require you to be asleep,
I would have to
find that moment
when you weren’t looking…

but it never came.
and it never will.

So I will content myself with french fries and wagon trains, and birds a wing
with messages of wonder, with legs and swaying hips
and pulling one of my most amazing and useless comic faces
(or maybe even two)
and fit myself into spaces benevolent and overwatched
by you…

when you weren’t looking

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Solely By Existing…like God’s Love, Upside-down

Good Morning Constance…ran across this quote, and immediately saw a converse to the acceptance and love and welcoming that the Love of God has and is.

Let’s try to simply love?  It is amazing how much energy you will have, if you lay down trying to force everyone else into your image, which is the ultimate idolatry.

“Framing trans people and trans discourse as though it falls along the lines of “transgenderism”, frames the issue as though it is ideological.

“Trans people are not an ideology. There is no monolithic ideology that trans people share. There are radical trans people, liberal trans people, conservative trans people (though that is sort of rare), apolitical trans people, just as there are femme trans men, butch trans women etc.

“Trans people exist and are an eminently marginalized class of people.

“Trans people are, as well as being an oppressed class, individual human beings with their own idiosyncratic experiences, lives and stories to tell.

“Trans people, for challenging the institution of gender solely by existing, are treated with vitriolic contempt from all corners of society in a material basis.

“Trans people, most especially transgender women of color, are disproportionately affected by hate crime, poverty, police brutality, sexual violence, the prison industrial complex, are economically coerced into survival sex work, often have a lack of access to appropriate medical care, experience sensationalistic media depictions, constant hyper-objectification and so on.

“Trans people, especially trans women, are consistently dehumanized by wider society, all because of society’s preposterous obsession with gender and their anxiety, and downright terror of people who fail to conform.

“Trans people are not an ideology.

Trans people are f***ing human beings.”

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Mama’s Clothes

Mama’s clothes are alive, like meadows over dirt,
like dew over meadows, like sun kissing dew,
like sky holding sun, like night holding stars,
and then there She is, outside the inside and
with me too.

Mama’s clothes move, like wind thru the trees,
like waves on the sea, like swans in the air,
like fish thru the water, like boats on a voyage,
like banners in the wind, like mercy over sin,
like gratitude in me.

Mama’s clothes rustle, swirl, and make my way
to snuggle close, tussle that soft edge to my face,
curl, close and hear the breath She takes, the
breath She gives, the song She croons, as She
sings over me.

Mama’s clothes glow, like rainbows in sun,
like silver in the clouds, like diamonds in my eyes,
like peacocks in their glory, like a single color story,
Refracted in Her eyes and a living quick surprise
to delight me.

Mama’s clothes, my refuge in the storm,
my anchor to the norm, my banquet in the fear,
invitation to draw near, so I do, I snuggle closer,
inhale Her strength, Her Kindness, Her Grace that
pours over me.

Mama.  Strong…Soft…There, not “there”.
Deep, serene, intent, inquisitive, powerful
Grace Incarnate.  Wisdom manifested,
Means of Creation, Healer and Nurturer of
Her daughter, me.

Mama.  Charissa Grace.
A match made in heaven, designed from
the beginning, a leap within Her Heart to
spark in me and bloom, alive and growing free
my Mama and me.

Mama, can I wear Your clothes?
I wanna be
just like You.melodie_du_soir__by_leona_snow-d6jo2d5

 

Depression

Still, unseen but felt, lurking, looming
pressing against my bubble pushing hard
against my present center fading spinning wobbly.

You off balance me with your certainty, your finality
and you insinuate your monstrous purr vibrating
into my mindful choice to be…

…as you wait there, blacker on black, darker in dark,
shadow become substance as you steal essence and draw form
from eating my tentative, furtive choice to chance it

and be.

You snarl, silent, unheard except for those who cannot sleep
and you creep, forward-sideways-higher until your breath
fetid and cold punches my face with the death of stars and galaxies

and little creatures too, like me.

I turn away, and think of Her, and remind myself that
you choked one time…once…and took a beating, a hiding
as He tattooed you inside and out with His victory dance

you got greedy, thought you could swallow a god,
having dined on Their image like river runnings.
Your razor teeth ugly and crooning are close

but no cigar.

I slide my hand in Hers and pull me close
nose pressed firmly into Her garments of
sandalwood sashes and cedar cloaks jet blue and brilliant warm…

and turn away again from your awful there-ness

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Sleeping Skin to Skin

Somewhere in the dark,
in the warmth of black-red
before we woke up swimming,
surfing sultry heartbeats and
waves of new bones growing
green and rooty-fibrous,
we navigated bold our
seas secure and buoyant,
our universe and listened…

 to…things beyond…a world…
somewhere? Out there.

Sounds moving and flowing,
deep, high, in-between
and all things came to us,
there, turning in the tides
of the primeval pools
of ancient new beginnings…

 and so we safely rested…sleeping skin to skin.

As time stood still, there always,
and we went rushing, tossing
thru cataracts and canyons
across the woolly wild-land
of years that tug us forward,
and push hard from behind,
we came thru like otters
in our wedded frolic,
our hurtling thru history,
unseen and secrets heard…
our buoyant whispers crossing

 a…vast gulf…a schism…
something? Out there.

Thru skin so thin, translucent
like milk or bridal veils,
we felt, we knew for certain,
beneath the crystal cataracts
that cloaked our singing souls,
we ate at tables there,
delighted and so dizzy
from seeing with hands only
and feeling with hearts lonely
and then, content and answered,
and with our bright eyes open…

we lay together, mingled…sleeping skin to skin.

Now, in this shining dark-red
of knowing and becoming,
tethered strong and vital
to That shore over there,
to That bright land “Before”,
our food and drink comes foreign
and yet familiar, tasting
of places ever ancient yet
forever fresh and reeking
with incense always burning
from when the Song and Singer
ignited flames of union.
Our hands reach, grope, entwine
to mirror hearts and lives
that grappled with this grief
and grasped instead the Grace of
that birth, that dissolution
of two lives into one life.

We lay each night and cast away,
in practice for that Voyage
Last and Final, beckoning,
echoing births transcended,
our hearts become a heart,

and it is well here…sleeping skin to skin

Sleeping skin to skin

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Society’s Dismissal and Dehumanization of Trans Women

While I am still invested in concealing myself in certain societal stratas, I do share with Janet a growing awareness of the many facets of being.  And a growing awareness of the ways in which I have been othered and policed…both as trans and as a woman.

“My assignment at birth is only one facet of my identity, one that I am no longer invested in concealing. Acknowledging this fact and how it has shaped my understanding of self has given me the power the challenge the ways in which we judge, discriminate, and stigmatize women based on bodily differences. The media’s insatiable appetite for transsexual women’s bodies contributes to the systematic othering of trans women as modern-day freak shows, portrayals that validate and feed society’s dismissal and dehumanization of trans women.”

-Janet Mock, Redefining Realness

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On the Stigmatization of Gender-Variant People

“As long as trans women are seen as less desirable, illegitimate, devalued women, then men will continue to frame their attraction to us as secret, shameful, and stigmatized, limiting their sexual interactions with trans women to pornography and prostitution.

And if a trans woman believes that the only way she can share intimate space with a man is through secret hookups or transactions, she will be led to engage in risky sexual behaviors that make her more vulnerable to criminalization, disease, and violence; she will be led to coddle a man who takes out his frustrations about his sexuality on her with his fists; she will be led to question whether she’s worthy enough to protect herself with a condom when a man tells her he loves her; she will be led to believe that she is not worthy of being seen and must remain hidden.”

-Janet Mock, Redefining Realness

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This proves my point, brothers!

Okay, no sooner do I get the last post up than I run across this awesomely made lil youtube video that really shows how men are in bondage to the paradigm just as much as women…they just don’t pay with their bodies and rent raped souls…they pay with souls that are stunted, deformed, and ultimately pitiful twisted versions of the noble and honorable creatures they are intended to be.

Please check it out…it will make you laff, and then it should make you cry.

In love, but with a fiery intended edge,

Charissa

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The Extension of Porn Culture

This Is What Tech’s Ugly Gender Problem Really Looks Like | Business | WIRED.

Speak up, sisters…one and all!

I am beginning to suspect that this is not just a problem in the tech arena…but rather it is a problem because women are socialized to never ever speak up about this problem!

The problem?  That men are socialized to believe that it is okay to go ahead and harass women, and then to shame them, demean them or dehumanize them if they dare speak out.

It is the ultimate objectification, and I assert it is an extension of porn culture.

Well?  Isn’t the essence of porn that women are objects, present for physical pleasure and then cast aside like yesterday’s newspaper?  Yes, it is…and taking away from a woman her story, her history, her right to be present and autonomous is pornography by extension.  Puts a different light on it when you think of it that way, no?

I have been thinking back…and I am remembering my mom teaching my sister things about “how to handle men”…and teaching her that men just automatically do things…as if that was normal and allowed…and I remember being horrified and vowing that I would never do that, forced into that label as I was and thrust into those territories.  And I saw it…just as my sister did, except I saw it from the other side.

Sisters it is worse than you know…they truly do not give a crap, and the ones that do still have patriarchal beliefs that drive their good behaviour!  Such as “women are weaker vessels so a man worth his salt should take care of them and respect them” and endless variations on that theme.

I advocate a new paradigm of gender relationships modelled on the New Testament prescriptions for all believers.  Starting with Paul’s powerful repudiation of the power/privilege dynamic extant in the world in the book of Ephesians “…for in Christ there is no longer slave nor free, greek nor jew, male nor female…” (Paul’s 3 pronged skewer of economic privilege, national-political privilege, and gender privilege) all the way to Philippians 2, and those sections in between.

I believe that this modelling of behaviour needs to be rigorously parsed for cultural expectations and read for the true literal meaning of the words…whether those words be directly true, or whether they are metaphor and intended to be understood as metaphor and sifted for their spiritual truth.

Start with this idea:  what does life and human relationship look like if we are all truly on level ground at the foot of the cross, where the only power and right left standing is the right of the one who paid the ultimate price, broke down all dividing walls and set us truly free?  If we all start out as equal, theologically, morally, and spiritually…new…why then do we import back onto ourselves a yoke of bondage?

Brothers…if there are any who still read here…you must understand that you are equally enslaved when you participate in this paradigm, for you cut yourself off from the incredible potential that resides untapped in half the human race, and you cut yourself off from half of human experience, and you will continue to walk off balance and wounded and raising your sons up to oppress your daughters.

Hey…chains of gold and ropes of velvet are still implements of bondage.

Okay…there is material in there for a thousand posts.  There is a worthy series of posts on rightly dividing the word of Truth…avoiding the equal errors of unquestioning literal swallowing of everything with no effort to think through the meaning, and the error of parsing everything so minutely that you kill the life of the word and instead read the sacred thoughts as a multiple choice smorgasbord for your convenience.

There is a dynamic tension there…put there on purpose by the God of paradox who tells us that if we want to live, we must die, if we want to be first we must be last, if we want to be rich we must become poor…

…but for sure we can start with this:  It isn’t, never has been, and never will be okay to treat women in any way different than how Jesus Himself treated them in His time on the planet bodily.

Please read the article?  Make the application?  Think?  And then…rend your hearts and not your garments, and let us start again.

Soberly and purposefully blazing,

Charissa Grace

 

Forcing Kids To Stick To Gender Roles Can Actually Be Harmful To Their Health | ThinkProgress

Forcing Kids To Stick To Gender Roles Can Actually Be Harmful To Their Health | ThinkProgress.

Dear Constance…I ran across this fascinating study of gender roles in adolescents and how they are harmed health-wise.  It is from Portugal, and fascinates me with how those stereotypes have bound and held captive with the same chains and lies.

It is almost like there is some force in this world…some evil which wants all to be slaves of its hungry destructive self…(coff coff…satan!..coff coff…)

I was most struck how all of the kids surveyed wished they could “just be themselves”…

I get it…I know that feeling…see “Haunted By A Lovely God” in case you have missed my feelings on this…

But I have found my stride, and am running with my Mama, walking with Jesus and finding fulfillment in fulfilling the Father’s will that we each be free and unfettered, to blossom and bloom in His Garden of Grace.

Flower to Flower…

Charissa

What It’s Like Raising Money As A Woman In Silicon Valley

What It’s Like Raising Money As A Woman In Silicon Valley.

This is part of the same horrible paradigm that must give way.

If you are in anyway oriented to justice, mercy, humility, or grace, then you need to gather yourself, and prepare to allow the blood of your spirit and the power of your soul create a river that runs so great that it washes away this inhuman way of being.

Scratch off the veneer of society, and I don’t see any difference between this and a caveman approach to life.

How is the basic attitude towards half the human race any different than that of some of the most heinous and dark parts of the world where women are still physical slaves as well as spiritual and mental ones?  How is it any different than cultures who command the brutal removal of external genitalia?  Both are exploiting women and their sacred bodies for the sake of male pleasure and/or power.

#NOTOK!!!!

Fuming, crying, steaming…

Charissa

PS:  She actually has to write anonymously to preserve her career!!!  I.  RELATE.  TO.  THAT!!!

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Whipping Girl: Interview with trans feminist Julia Serano

Whipping Girl: Interview with trans feminist Julia Serano.

Brilliant Interview!

Just.  Go.  Read.

Male Privilege = Gender Privilege = Wrongful Oppression, Period

“Of course, there are some segments of the feminist community that are vehemently anti-trans. But even aside from that, a lot of feminist activism and rhetoric is geared specifically toward non-trans women’s experiences.

“Much of it centers on women being able to do anything men can, and on empowering women’s bodies and biology, which is important and necessary, but it doesn’t resonate as readily with trans women because our socializations and bodies differ from that norm.

“And the whole unilateral feminist notion that men are the oppressors and women are the oppressed just seems so overly simplistic coming from a trans perspective. Male privilege is very real, but it is not the only gender privilege that exists.

“I think what trans women can offer feminism is a fuller, more holistic perspective on sexism than what currently exists.

“Part of this comes from our having lived in the world as both women and men at different points in our lives. Also, I think trans women can challenge the notion that femininity is entirely artificial or merely a trap to hold women down.

“I can understand why it might seem that way for many women who were coerced as children into a femininity that did not feel right for them. But trans women often have the reciprocal experience of naturally gravitating toward feminine expression despite being socialized to be masculine.

“Because of this experience, we recognize how certain aspects of femininity can be empowering for those who gravitate toward it on their own accord. We recognize the importance of critiquing anti-feminine sentiment both in the culture at large as well as within feminism.”

Snapshot into my world…

“When you’re a trans woman, you are made to walk this very fine line, where if you act feminine you are accused of being a parody, but if you act masculine, it is seen as a sign of your true male identity. And if you act sweet and demure, you’re accused of reinforcing patriarchal ideals of female passivity, but if you stand up for your own rights and make your voice heard, then you are dismissed as wielding male privilege and entitlement.”
― Julia Serano, Excluded: Making Feminist and Queer Movements More Inclusive

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Free Will: The Very Image of God

We have these brief lives, and our only real choice is how we will fill them. Your attention is precious. Don’t squander it. Don’t throw it away. Don’t let companies and products steal it from you. Don’t let advertisers trick you into lusting after things you don’t need. Don’t let the media convince you to covet the lives of celebrities. Own your attention — it’s all you really have.
— Jonathan Harris
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Fighting Back Against Anti-Transgender Talking Points | Brynn Tannehill

Fighting Back Against Anti-Transgender Talking Points | Brynn Tannehill.

Good Morning Constance.  🙂

I do not spend a ton of time (any time) questioning the legitimacy or reality of my being transgender.  Too many things that never made sense ever in my life now do…too many good and fruitful things are happening in my life as I heal and integrate and actualize who I really am vs who I was “trying to be”, too many good fruits of the spirit are blossoming and coming forth in the last 1 1/2  years that were not there previously.

But:  Ignorance is great, fear is greater, and their bastard child hatred is the most vengeful of all.  As knowledge is the greatest answer to ignorance, and wisdom is the greatest answer to fear, I am reposting this article to assist any of you who might be “okay with Charissa:” but not so okay with other transgender people or their lifestyle choices.

I get that.  It is definitely a brave new world outside the binary and learning about all the gender variations that have always existed but been shunted away to the side because they are not “convenient”

Well, Time Magazine just did some writing on Transgender issues, and it stirred up a bit of ignorant backlash.  Brynn Tannehill does a great job of rebutting that backlash, and it should give you plenty of ammo to lay aside questions of legitimacy, and return to the essential question present always with all people:

“How can I live so as to embody faith, hope, and love?”

Shining in new life, and being changed by degrees, from glory to Glory!

Charissa Grace

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Oops…I did it again!

Edited The Mist some more…giggles!!  It woke up colicky this morning, complaining of inconsistent rhyming patterns and cluttered meters…

So I walked the floors with it and crooned soothing ministrations…and I think it might be okay.

This time, no rash promises though…lol     The Mist

In capering silliness,

Charissa Grace

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Why Do We Need Labels Like “Gay”, “Bi”, “Trans”, and “Cis”?

Why Do We Need Labels Like “Gay”, “Bi”, “Trans”, and “Cis”?.

Wowsa…Constance, this is a long, well thought out, and somewhat complex article on the necessity for words to describe our experiences…and also how power segments of our culture control words, define the ones allowed and the ones that will be known as “labels” and thus verboten.

The complexity lies in the need to keep a few ideas simultaneously in mind as you read, and to patiently assimilate the foundational things at the beginning to roll with understanding at the end.

Please…roll up your sleeves and give it a go.  It will greatly assist you in having a greater connection to my life experience, and more effectively equip you to be a tower of kindness and compassion to those you meet each day, especially trans-folks.

Love, Charissa

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Update Alert: The Mist and adjustments

Constance, while we were doing our cycling, The Mist kept complaining in my gut that it was out of step and awkward, and needed some help and ministration.

I listened…and adjusted it a bit.  Whew!

It breathes now, and carries a punch in its bowels.

If you liked the poem, please take a fresh look…I am liking the end result very much!

Thank you so for the kind words over it.  Love,

Charissa

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The Mist

Mist floats and clings in vaporous veils,
tenuous, drapes itself in sails,
cross hillsides twined thru twig and tree,
ravines and over streams…and me…
arrives in sheets to swath dim swales.

I cling to dull rocks anxiously,
hands stiff and aching longingly
and stinky ‘neath that clutching throb
my fingers seeking comfort’s swab
with baking torn nails tipped bloody,

…but finding only edges, and
comfort none, not now, not here….

Does it conceal, overtake and choke, tenebrous,
sly in brumous cloak…and conquer with its murky stroke?
Does it linger and embrace, its hovering hazy slinking shrouds
arisen from graves of earth in clouds to blur, obscure,
entwine and coil in its seductive writhing smoke?

Or does it flee instead, heart torn and rent
by trees, peaks, light from heaven sent
to pierce and tear death’s veils away
and shatter dark with argent day
that slashes, straightening all that’s bent?

In mist I wait…in mist, I wait to see…
and coming or going, I am becoming me

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Wrinkles In Time

Good Morning Constance Dear…gosh what a difficult night it was for me!

The deconstruction of my self in order to conform to who I must be in order to earn money is a very rough thing.

It tears me apart!

One of my helps that keeps me centered and knowing myself is the devotional writings of Jill Carattini…I share this morning’s here for you.

Love and Grace, Charissa, who is suffering

tumblr_n7toayaEkz1sifsb9o1_1280“Uncanny” was one of the vocabulary words on my sixth grade vocabulary list, which was to be found within the book we were reading as a class. I remember thinking Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time was exactly that—uncanny, peculiar, and uncomfortably strange. Yet I also remember that it stayed with me—the story of a quirky girl named Meg, her overly-intelligent little brother, and their time-transcending journey to save their physicist father with the help of three mysterious beings. Madeleine L’Engle, the writer whose books invite readers to see time itself differently, passed away not too long ago. But her stories will continue to perplex sixth graders, and stay with us long after we have set them aside.

L’Engle is the writer who first showed me the incredible difference between two words in Greek, which we unfortunately translate identically. To the English reader, chronos and kairosboth appear to us as “time.” But in Greek, these words are vastly different. Chronos is the time on your wristwatch, time on the move, passing from present to future and so becoming past. Kairos, on the other hand, is qualitative rather than quantitative. It is time as a moment, a significant occasion, an immeasurable quality. The New Testament writers use the word kairos to communicate God’s time, it is real time—it is the eternal now.

So it might be said for the Christian that when Jesus stepped into time to proclaim the kingdom of God among us, he came to show us in chronos the reality of kairos. “Jesus took John and James and Peter up the mountain in ordinary, daily chronos,” writes L’Engle. “Yet during the glory of the Transfiguration they were dwelling in kairos.”(1) With this story in mind, L’Engle describes kairos as that time which breaks through chronos with a shock of joy, time where we are completely unselfconscious and yet paradoxically far more real than we can ever be when we are continually checking our watches.

Whatever your view of religion, it is likely an experience you can recount; a moment so sweet or magnified it seems to stop time. But L’Engle presses the Christian to see it as something to be expected. “Are we willing and able to be surprised?” L’Engle asks. “If we are to be aware of life while we are living it, we must have the courage to relinquish our hard-earned control of ourselves.”(2) If we have the courage to see it, the kingdom of God is close at hand,kairos breaking through like Christ into the world.

I imagine Jacob, too, discovered the difference between chronos and kairos when he set aside the past which was about to catch up with him, along with his paralyzing fear of the future, and found himself living in “none other than the house of God.” The prophets and poets describe similar moments of waking to the present and finding the eternal dimensions of time. The shepherds in Bethlehem were going about their ordinary work when the glory of the Lord captured the moment. “Do not be afraid,” the angel announced. “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you” (Luke 2:13-14). At this invasion of kairos into the routine of chronos, the shepherds chose to respond with action: “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about” (2:15).

Uncanny encounters with time are a part of the human experience. The Christian is given a language to explain these encounters. We live somewhere between the already and the not yet, caught by the eternal now and the one who dwells within it. The implications are both temporal and unending. Will we have the courage to look for glory in the ordinary? To release control of our calendars and watches and note the eternal in our midst? The apostle joins every prophet and poet who proclaimed the coming of the Messiah in history and the return of the king to come, “Behold, now is the time (kairos) of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2).

Like Christ, glimpses of the eternal come quietly and unexpectedly; they come and upset our very notion of time and all we discover within it. Why should we be so unreconciled to time if the temporal were our only concern? Or could it be that the eternal Word stepped into flesh, into our bounded realm of time, and literally embodied the reality that time is meaningful because of the eternal one in our midst.

The Christian insists that kairos is breaking into chronos and transforming it. With Christ it proclaims, “The kingdom of God is close at hand”—and the temporal world invited to break in along with it. In ordinary moments that hint at such a radical invasion, might we have the courage to be surprised by one who comes so near.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York: Bantam, 1982), 93.
(2) Ibid., 99.

Transgender Violence Is a #YesAllWomen Issue | The Nation

Transgender Violence Is a #YesAllWomen Issue | The Nation.

Constance.

Please.

Read this. Sorrowfully, sadly, I confess…before I came home to myself as who I am…a transwoman redeemed, I blindly and unconsciously participated as an oppressor in this issue.  <sob>

I am sooo sorry, Sisters…never again.  Ever.

And now, to find myself near the bottom of the power pyramid, by choice and never happier…the irony is rich, and radicalizing.

Teaser quote:

“All women are subject to the threat of violence when they exert agency over their own bodies, defying the expectations of men. For trans women, this agency also takes the form of choosing to express their true gender in public. They act against society’s expectations, especially those of men who feel they are entitled to define trans women’s gender. When trans women attract men, they anger those same men who cannot accept their attraction to a woman who was assigned male identity at birth. Because of this, trans women become the targets of violence…

“Like women who are held responsible for being raped because of their dress or demeanor, trans women are also blamed for presenting themselves according to their true gender. Like other women, trans women are accused of deceiving men, and their histories are used to justify violence against them…

Understanding trans violence as a women’s issue benefits both the trans and women’s movements. It allows trans women to connect their struggles with a broader and more extensive history. But more important, it also deepens our understanding of the struggles of all women, highlighting the lengths men are willing to go to in order to preserve their control over our bodies. It is only when women achieve equality, successfully battling against male entitlement, that trans women will no longer pose a threat to this social system. Trans women’s rights therefore serve as an ideal barometer for women’s rights in general.”

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When enforcing gender norms turns violent | PBS NewsHour

When enforcing gender norms turns violent | PBS NewsHour.

Constance…re-posting this for your consideration.  I also encourage you to peruse the comment section.  This is rarely a good idea to do with online articles…but this time it is illustrative of the very subject of the article.

Be sure you put on your suit of armour though, and spray yourself with hate/ignorance/harassment repellant, as it is there in quantities of mass-pollution.

One of the hugest eye-openers to me was that of how the privilege I had been socialized into by virtue of being born in a biological male body and forced into that role by all powers from my parents to the church…that very privilege blinded me to the ways that I myself oppressed non-privileged human beings, even in my very attempts to help them!

My desires to help people, to show them the wonders of Divine Love, to assist them into higher ways of being…nearly always this was me policing the behaviour of others without actually entering into their world, bearing their burdens and identifying with them in their station…in other words, I was more a Pharisee than I was a Follower…

In prayers for the opening of the eyes of our hearts,

Charissa Grace

PS:  I do think that there is a way for a trans-person to live with grace and mercy, and assist the clumsy, the ignorant, the rude and the invasive…it takes courage first of all, then self-control, benign indifference to wounds that are minor, refusal to take offense over wrongs small or great, and a genuine welcoming heart for those who genuinely want to approach and reach out, but lack even the beginning tools to know how to put this desire into action.

In these last months, I have found that when I notice others who are uncomfortable or bound up around me, but sense that they wish to interact, if I simply tell them that I am newly transitioning, and I share in their awkwardness myself when I look in the mirror, it brings them a relief and freedom, and births genuine dialogue…they will give me permission to educate them, and actually leave glad, empowered to be kind, and an ally.

Hey…this is the very grace that we can, each and every one of us, extend to one another in all things, all ways and all times…it’s simple, really…but not easy.

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Re-Post: Why it’s so hard for men to recognize misogyny.

#YesAllWomen in the wake of Elliot Rodger: Why it’s so hard for men to recognize misogyny..

Constance…this is a must read to understand the current climate of spiritual being inhabited by the human race.

Each of us is living in this prison!

Women, who suffer as inmates…

…and men, who are born little boys, and socialized into jailers, and thus inmates as well…

…and the rest of us, on that continuum and without territory, the cleaner of latrines and the off-scourings of both or either.

If you read here for the poetry, consider this post to be talking of that entity that strikes at Poetry’s Heart, that malice, spite, hatred, rage, “anti-life black hole” gawping hungry and ravening, raving in rage against the light.  You need to find your way to your compass, and follow it to that way of being that is in the land Beyond and whole…

If you read here for the spiritual orientation, consider this post in light of Paul’s great rejection of privilege and station in Galatians: “For in Christ, there is neither slave nor free, greek nor jew, male nor female…”  Paul was not teaching that there is no gender or nationality or station in life, but rather, he was pointing out that Jesus has united us all in a land of freedom where there are no more jails, no more jailers, no more inmates.  All have equal worth, value, and significance, whose limit is defined by the price paid to purchase all things…and you simply have no other option than to find the courage of your convictions, leave the safety of the “bus-stop of evangelism and the 4 spiritual laws”, and strike out boldly into the territories waiting for your courage, your faith and resolve, and most of all, your love oozing and dripping from your heart instead of the very blood of the monster that enslaves this world and us by proxy to the degree that we do not speak out, live out our words and embody in our beings the very law of liberty!

If you read here for the perspective of a transgender person in a binary world view, for my own outrage and bucking against an entire construct of ancient evil birthed in rebellion and ego, then take stock of your own station and participation in this concentration camp culture and way of being…

…start bucking.  Kicking.  In that way which is right for you to do, for some have hooves, some wings, some words and some deeds…

Above all, find that radical action which transcends revolutionary overthrow and effects true change of being, essence and substance, and does not simply burn out in tiredness and cynicism or become co-opted in its strength and potency by consumerism which simply re-packages genuine action into the latest consumer product and trend.

Blessings of uneasiness and no peace until you confront yourself in this gaol…

Charissa Grace, circumspect and sober of spirit.

(small quote from the entire article to whet your appetite:

These are forms of male aggression that only women see. But even when men are afforded a front seat to harassment, they don’t always have the correct vantage point for recognizing the subtlety of its operation. Four years before the murders, I was sitting in a bar in Washington, D.C. with a male friend. Another young woman was alone at the bar when an older man scooted next to her. He was aggressive, wasted, and sitting too close, but she smiled curtly at his ramblings and laughed softly at his jokes as she patiently downed her drink. “Why is she humoring him?” my friend asked me. “You would never do that.” I was too embarrassed to say: “Because he looks scary” and ‘I do it all the time.’ “)

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