“It’s A Healthy Little Baby!” (Gender TBD)

So Constance, on Sunday there was a birth announcement.  A child had been born, healthy and mom was okay too.  Everyone was happy and feeling good about a new little life in the world…and then came this:

“It’s a healthy little girl!”  Followed by a smattering of applause and some coos and happy noises…

…and just like that a potential nightmare of dysphoria is begun.

Can you see it here?  First of all, the very first thing we are told about this child is its gender, before anything else.  Everyone wanted to know this, and from this point on, that child is going to be socialized and treated according to cultural customs and expectations that may have nothing to do with who that child really is, and could be quite harmful to the child in that they would run directly counter to the child’s identity.

And we know the child’s gender how?  Why, because we looked between the legs…and now a human being’s first most basic categorizing has been accomplished in the name of genitalia.  Never mind the fact that there are all kinds of intersex conditions that only show up upon chromosomal examination…no need for that, right?

Now…the odds are that this child will turn out to be female.  But those odds are not as long as what everyone thinks.  And just think…if that child turns out to be like I was, and learns that their very being is wrong, is naught and ought not…

Not to mention how I felt, sitting there…in the midst of allies and friends mind you!  Who in all the reflex of the ritual sat there and gendered a human being less than a week old and without even having met the child let alone heard her tell us who she is! They would all say they support me…but it is sadly still a support after a couple of layers of thought and reminding themselves that I am “identifying female”.

And that makes me cry, because I identify as a human being. 

am female.

I get criticized often for being persnickety about words…I get anxious about what people mean and question closely and then feel like I am an irritant when others say that they were not speaking as specifically as I took what was said.

But I am that way because of things like this…when a whole identity has been rendered a done deal without even a word being said by the person thus sentenced.

When will it be natural for us to announce our healthy children, and the great anticipation that we have in finding out who they are?  Think how they would be brought up!  Think how much more balanced and developed they would be.

Oh, and don’t worry…they will tell us their gender.  It is that basic.  You can rest assured of that simply by reflecting on how you would react if someone sought to police you as a gender other than that which you are.

Gender is more than genitalia…when will our understandings of one another be so too?

Until then, I will find myself alone, and sitting embarrased while gender privilege is handed out right and left, and a certain ratio doomed by this policing to join me in the ranks of those of who sit in the pew together…all alone.tumblr_nnzn95pYkG1rznpc8o1_1280


When All Seems Hushed (from Samuel Beckett’s “Molloy”)

And that night there was no question of moon,
nor any other light, but it was a night of listening,
a night given to the faint soughing and sighing
stirring at night in little pleasure gardens,

the shy sabbath of leaves and petals
and the air that eddies there
as it does not in other places,
where there is less constraint,

and as it does not during the day,
when there is more vigilance,
and then something else that is not clear,
being neither the air nor what it moves,

perhaps the far unchanging noise
the earth makes and which other noises cover,
but not for long. For they do not account for that noise
you hear when you really listen,

when all seems hushed.  And there was another noise,
that of my life become the life of this garden
as it rode the earth of deeps and wildernesses.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was, but that I was, forgot to be.

SAMUEL BECKETT, MOLLOYtumblr_no2umtaP1t1sooy9go1_1280

Not A “Sometimes” Girl

I am not a “sometimes” girl
a sometimes thrill or sometimes time.
I am not occasionally
or when you feel like coming round.

I’m not available just now and then
if that’s what you want, well I just grin
and fake it like it’s all the time
but I am gone around the bend.

I am not a kitchen drawer
full of batteries and more
to be wrenched open in your need
and taken from as seed to feed

an image of a self or time
when fullness is a masquerade
for decorating a fat heart
I’m a whole, not just a part.

I guess that means I run the risk
of standing lonely in the dusk
and looking on from the outside
but that’s okay…I turn and ride

knowing I am me and always
all the time an always girlImage 005

This Irony Is Too Good!

Omg…so I just wrote this poem about my hair…about my Cat-Hair (well, maybe it is about other things too…I will leave that to the more energetic of you)…

…and then I saw this quote and literally laughed, just guffawed!!



Me and My Cat-Hair

Me and my Cat-Hair go where we want!
Well, my Cat-hair does, anyway.
I just trail frantically, pulled right along
as it wanders and pries and looks into burrows
and lays in the sun and just licks its soft paws
with no care in the world but those mice!

Sometimes it looks really cool, and just perfect!
Purring there, cooing and wanting the touch
of a hand that will smooth its sleek soft furry pelt
and some fingers so friendly with their gentle skritch
skritch skritch and then a flat palm to do obeisance.

But then there are times when my Cat-hair just hisses!
Its eyes glowing green and just brimming with daggers
and it jumps akimbo and arches its back
and it dares me, just dares me to try to address it
with anything less than a rake and a hoe
and better get ready to wrestle a she-devil
scratches for skritches and clawings for pettings!!
Image result for cat clawing arm
My Cat-hair and me are sometimes called names
and sometimes called other and sometimes called mask
and sometimes called liar and sometimes called nothing
and that’s when my Cat-hair sits silent, tail lashing
and eyes focused into the void that is lurking
inside the accusers who say they hate cats
when what they really mean is that they just hate me…
Image result for cat being petted
well, Cat-hair is there, and I cannot do anything
to make it dog-hair or human or cow-hair
or sheep-hair or anything else that would walk
off the Ark on that day when the floodwaters drained
and the animals rambled in freedom again.

so I guess I will just go with Cat-hair, just sitting there
being itself, just my Cat-hair and me.