The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
– Job 1:21
It’s a truly mysterious thing how life’s waves suck us up one moment and then spit us out the next. What’s like death one moment becomes a terrifying but breathtaking new beginning.
Something mysterious happened to me the last few days. I feel like I’ve experienced a depth to life that I never knew was possible. Life has been both tragedy and comedy, both utterly heartbreaking and painfully beautiful. The Lord gives and the Lord takes and the Lord gives and the Lord takes, and all we can do is have open hands, surrendered but hopeful.
How the Lord set me adrift.
Something terrible happened yesterday. The context is straightforward: a conversation with my parents. However, the full weight of what happened is still dawning on me. Maybe I ought to allow some of the swell to die down and the salty spray of this storm to dissipate first, but I also want to capture the first momentous impression of what this all means.
Yesterday my parents pulled me into their bedroom for the inevitable follow-up conversation to my ‘coming out.’ The first conversation happened this October, and then this November I also wrote them a twenty-seven page letter attempting to clarify things. I knew their response was inevitable, but that didn’t make it the tiniest bit easier for me to hear.
They essentially restated their original opinion of what trans* is: that the Devil has tortured and warped my soul until now the “real” me (their male-man-masculine son) is at the bottom of some dark spiritual well while a fake version of me prances about pretending to be feminine. They believe that any claim to pretty much any femininity or even to having hidden and repressed parts of myself is a delusion. They can’t see anything but what they’ve already seen; they can’t begin to see me except as how they want to.
They also made some very scary, occasionally true, and sometimes cruel jabs about my future as a trans person. They asked me what I can expect from the future if I transition. They basically reconfirmed what I already suspected: that if I transition, I will lose my entire biological family as well as my extended family on my mom’s side. Guaranteed. Then they tried to shake my faith in my friends and their loyalty to me if I changed, which seemed like a low blow.
Then the really strange thing happened: my parents told me that they’ve not only noticed bits of femininity peeking through, but that they’ve taken these signs as (a) utter inauthentic bullshit on my part and (b) evidence that I’m “already transitioning.” They are utterly convinced that I am already actively choosing to “become a woman.” I really tried to convince them otherwise. In fact, I prepared them for this all in my letter to them when I said:
I have lived a life of subtle denials of very basic desires and expressions. For example, I would have loved to ask for a purple scarf for Christmas. Instead I ask for a straight razor. You are going to be tempted to link this simple little thing – a stupid scarf, how innocent! – with confusion. You are going to say ‘well, that’s not you; it’s just a symptom of your inexplicably flipped gender identity.” No. I am me. I like certain perfectly innocent things. I have spent more energy than you can imagine pruning these innocuous desires to ‘acceptable’ dimensions. The truth is I would have a Jane Austen poster in my room if I thought it was ‘socially acceptable.’ Instead I secretly enjoy Pride and Prejudice while loudly saying in my burliest voice “hrm hrm, I only like the Jane Austen movies where I can relate to the male characters like Darcy and Ferrars.” I wish you could see the bewildered innocence of my soul! I wish you could visit the person of simple tastes that cannot understand why everyone demands such specific ways of being from me. My fear is that you will interpret very innocent self-expressions now as a sign of what you fear. For example, that you will take something like my fun colored socks to be a reminder of my transgenderism, and thus will see it as a manifestation of evil. I am so happy to be free of the tiny chains of life, and I can only hope that you can rejoice too. What is sinful about kombucha tea and skinny jeans (other than they have been adopted by the hipster crowd – admittedly, a great sin)? I imagine this will be difficult at times: learning to separate your fears of what you perceive as my confusion from the pure things that are actually signs of authenticity.
All evidence suggests that despite their attempts to be open minded and take my letter to heart, they haven’t integrated this passage or a single other thing I told them into their conception of what’s going on. I feel bad for them: I know they’re really trying to understand and that this revelation has utterly floored them – even destroyed them. I really feel sympathy for them, but on the other hand it seems unbelievable to me how literally not a single thing I told them in twenty-seven pages of heartfelt, honest, intelligent prose seems to have been accepted or taken into account.
This isn’t even the most troubling thing. The really tragic thing is something that is hard to express in words. In between their sentences, in their pauses, behind their resigned shrugs and underneath their word choices was a terrifying emotional subtext. Words won’t suffice to explain it, so allow me to begin with an image:
A beautiful, large boat rocks in the harbor under a darkness-shattering moonlight. I stand at the edge of the dock, admiring its towering sails and sweeping body. I step on board, for something calls to me, and a trembling foot touches down on perfect finished wood. I walk around the ship, not touching anything, no desire to cast off, just gazing wide-eyed (as I always am) at the glowing sails and triumphant masts. I don’t know this boat’s name, but I love it and just want to look at it a while.
After all, I came from the sea. I don’t know if I’ll ever return there, or if this boat will ever cast off with me on it, but I know where I came from and I feel for a moment the dream, the thrill, of walking over waves. I am an exile from my kingdom, maybe forever, but it’s nice to remember for an instant the me that existed before I washed up on terra firma.
All of a sudden I feel a lurch and hear waves lap against the hull. I turn around; my parents are there holding my baby brother. They have the rope that once tied the boat to the dock in their hands. They are waving goodbye to me, their faces pale and grief-stricken. With zombie-like voices hollow as the ship’s hull, they moan a farewell and lament my passing.
I run to the starboard of the ship – my ship? should I call it that? – which now drifts off toward the moon. “Wait!” I scream. “Don’t leave me! Don’t- I don’t want to cast off! Not yet, not now; maybe never!” The boat continues to drift, and the distance grows between us. My little brother’s blue eyes look at me so invitingly; he gives a flirtatious smile and waves as if to say hello. “Wait! Brother! Baby! No, I don’t want to leave! Don’t cast me off! I love my family! I haven’t left you!”
It is too late. The boat is adrift. There is no wind in the sails, and I have no direction for us to go. I haven’t set a direction, nor do I intend to. Where could I go? I can still see my baby brother right there like a ghost, begging my heart to stay. And my heart is with them, but my life’s ship is now moving off. I never cast it off- at least… I don’t think I did. The rope is in their hands, not mine. I sink to the deck, reeling with the phantasmic quality of it all.
The sea is still as glass except for the ripples of my vessel cutting through its mirror. I’m adrift, just me and God’s mantle of stars above me. I’m in His hands now; my parents have emptied theirs of me.
The night is frigid but demure.
I don’t know how much more I can say. Something huge happened last night. This image is the best I can do to express the emotions and intuitions of what it was.
I don’t want to put it in a little box by analyzing it. However, I think part of it is the fact that my parents are mourning the loss of their son. I know this is normal for parents to do with their trans children, but the problem is my parents are mourning the loss of the masculine me without recognizing the existence of the feminine me. They’ve sent me off like a corpse in a viking funeral. I’m just dead, with no new face to replace the mask. They’re not losing a son but regaining their child; they’re just losing a son, plain and simple. I feel sorry for them. I also feel sorry for myself, alone and adrift.
But then again, God works in mysterious ways.
How the Lord showed His hand.
When I woke up today, I hardly could have expected the strange lyrical happenstance that the day would bring. The only thing on my agenda was what I expected to be a casual catch-up coffee with an old friend. This calendar tidbit turned into an entire day of inner renewal that’s hard to explain.
So this friend of mine was a person I used to be very close to, and we hadn’t spoken in about two years. Our lives had gone very separate ways since high school. We ended up messaging each other on facebook at the exact same time the day after Christmas – which was funny and strange in of itself – and then agreed to grab a coffee or something in a few days just to check in on each other. I had some vague notion in the back of my mind that I might come out to her if the conversation somehow magically went that way, but I was otherwise pretty set on not telling her anything and just keeping things at a cordial level. Apparently God had other plans.
Our coffee conversation roamed about our studies overseas for some time, but the dialog had momentum and we were both feeling the pangs of whatever the early-afternoon-middle-class-American version of starvation is, so we picked up and moved to the best ramen restaurant in the world to enjoy some hot soup and shelter from the skin-peeling winter winds. Our conversation picked up and gained even more energy until we were waving (and re-waving) the check away and even ordering more. Early afternoon became late afternoon. No conversational stone was left unturned.
At some point (the turnover was a lightning-blot millisecond) my informal decision to not tell her I’m trans disappeared and I actually felt the opposite instinct. There was something in the rhythm of the conversation that demanded I tell her. So after a bathroom visit and cold water in my face, I did.
Something magical happened: I actually connected deeply with a person I thought was out of my life forever. God took away my parents in a strange way, but in an equally mysterious way returned an old friend to my life.
Something felt so perfect and full-circle – nay, PROVIDENTIAL – about the whole thing. This friend and I used to be so similar, and then took such different paths for four years, and now we’re brought back together so different than the people we used to be yet once again similar to each other. It was so unmistakable to me that we were meant to reconnect at this moment, right when I’m reeling from such a huge sense of loss in my life. Everything was full circle, like a good story.
We left the noodle place and then took a walk around the city just to burn time before going to a showing of Saving Mr. Banks – which I highly recommend. We then got dinner (authentic Italian pizza – I almost cried at how real the mozzarella was) and ran back (literally) to the theater.
The movie was awesome. It was so real about the tragedies of life and yet so brilliantly hopeful. It was wonderful and exactly what I needed.
We said our goodbyes and ended a 9 and a half hour day that was supposed to be nothing but a coffee break.
As I walked back to my parking spot, I had a sudden flash of genuine deja vu. Almost exactly four years ago I parked in practically the same spot. I remember my best friend from home and I were walking back to my car after an awesomely deep conversation. I remember God gave me a sudden flash of what can only be called prophecy – that those four years ago I was filled with a sudden knowledge that something amazing was about to begin. I remember telling my friend it was as if the very Earth was groaning with labor pains – or was it pleasure? – for some sort of revolution or change in the world. Maybe it sounds nutty, but I cannot describe the feeling that overcame me. It was this deep, gut sense of God moving – “Aslan is on the move.” And as I walked once again, four years later, to the same parking spot, I somehow knew that this prophecy was renewing itself.
I don’t know what the future will hold. At all. I know I’m trans, but I don’t know what this means. Do I transition? Do I transition all the way and get SRS? Do I go stealth or do I become a trans activist? Do I not transition and learn how to bring my body and soul into mutual zen with each other? Do I take low levels of hormones without enough to cause changes? Do I run off into the desert and become a hermit? Do I live a “secret agent” life “behind enemy lines” as a man? The future is literally blank for me as far as I know, but what I DO know is it’s all in God’s hands.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. He lets life run its crazy course – I think because He is, like us, a bit of a junkie for thrills and romance. Family comes and goes, friends go and come, and life happens. But through it all there is that solidity of being. I’m alive, and sometimes that’s really enough. Things are taken so that they can be appreciated. Things are given so that they can be loved. Life can be tragic, but even tragedies have heroes and heroines. Why do we keep going back to tragedies at the end of the day, like Romeo & Juliet and Titanic? It’s not just because they’re true to our experience of life; it’s because they’re beautiful.
Life is messy, but I don’t think I’d have it any other way.
I’m supposed to be writing papers right now, but my soul is languishing. I cannot concentrate on the task at hand when I feel so torn. Every molecule of my being is straining for a better life, a life lived authentically. Every time I pass the mirror in my room, I stop and stare for a little too long, trying to catch a glimpse of the person behind the veil.
The thing is I don’t desire to look into the mirror. I don’t want to have to gaze into my own eyes to recover the part of me that is lost. I don’t want to have to languish and moan as I hope for the day when all of me is an integrated whole. I don’t want to think about myself or worry about gender or fear my family. I don’t want to spend a single moment thinking about myself ever again. I want to LOVE!
So yes I hope for the day when I will be beautiful, but this is only the tiniest fraction of my desire. Yes, even more so I long for the time when I don’t have to wear a mask, but this is only a tiny drop of my anguish. Yes, more than both these is my desire to dance and sing and smile with freedom, but even this is crushed under the weight of the great pain that presses on my chest.
You see, the one thing I want above all is to be FREE TO LOVE! I want to be done with selfish preoccupations. I want to have some measure of completeness, not so I can feel complete, but so I can stop worrying about how incomplete I am. I want to be authentic to the world not only so I can be happy, but so I can be carefree above all. Carefree in love.
Why is the wait so long?! Why does every day feel like a lifetime?
I spent an hour tonight dithering around Youtube watching videos of mtf transition timelines. It took the edge off for a moment because it gave me hope. It seems so sad though, to have to cope with life by living vicariously through those who are farther ahead than me.
I need a change of attitude. I need to stop living in the future. I am me NOW! Sure, I’m unformed and incomplete. Sure, I’m masked and veiled. Sure I’m distracted and daydreamy. But the present still beckons. Life is still awesome, even if I choose to disconnect from it. The biggest thrill of coming to terms with being transgender has been to finally be able to live in the light. Well, I need to reclaim that. I need to keep living in the light.
Onward and upward!
“That which befits us, embosomed in beauty and wonder as we are, is cheerfulness and courage, and the endeavor to realize our aspirations. Shall not the heart, which has received so much, trust the Power by which it lives?”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
I’m moving too fast!
Something has happened in the last few weeks. It’s as if I’ve shed a skin or discarded a cocoon. Some idea I used to have of myself has passed away. The masculine image I once presented to the world – and often to myself – isn’t sticking any more. The machinery I operated to work in the male world has broken down, and now I’m useless as the person people expect me to be.
For example, I can’t buy guy clothes any more. I just can’t. I’m so utterly fed up with buying clothes that I don’t like, I’ve reached a point where I would barely care if someone saw me in a dress. All the clothes I’ve bought in the last few months have been from the ladies’ section, and not for ‘crossdressing’ – but for normal everyday wear. Scarves, gloves, leg warmers… Not exactly evening gowns, but the point is that whenever I’ve needed clothes, I’ve naturally bought stuff from the women’s section. Because that’s where I can get stuff I actually like.
I can’t even pretend to understand guys anymore. In conversations I get so bored and tired of bullshitting. I know what I’m supposed to say in guy conversations like a formula, but I can’t bring myself to use my precious energy on faking it. Also, I’ve become a bit of a feminist.
I’m starting to naturally become more androgynous, even feminine. People are going to start wondering soon.
This would all be great if I was able to transition any time soon, but the truth is the earliest I can feasibly transition is around October of next year, if not two years from now. I’m still in school and I need to become financially independent from my parents and grandparents before I can start living a new life.
I can’t afford to move this fast! Time and money are moving at a snail’s pace, but my heart is opening like jaws of death to swallow all the old comforting lies that once made life as a man somewhat livable.
I feel like a ghost that’s a moment away from being resurrected from the dead. My spirit is already alive even though my body is still inanimate. I want to run out into the streets as me, free and unashamed. The problem is not all of me is ready to run out. My wallet is too empty. My cheeks are too scruffy. My family is too uncomprehending.
And, technically I’m still discerning whether or not to transition in the first place. The problem is I’m transitioning already, whether I ‘decide’ to or not.
If it’s all about timing, then patience is the name of the game. If only that was a virtue that came easily to me…