1. THIS IS NOT A WALL, THIS IS A WELCOME. TO YOU, TO EVERY PERSON. IT IS A CALL, TODAY AND ALWAYS. TO ACCEPT DIFFERENCES, TO REJECT DIVISION. TO STAND PROUD, AND SPEAK YOUR MIND. TO FEEL SAFE, TO BE SAFE. AND SPREAD LOVE OUTSIDE AND IN.
2. THIS IS NOT A WALL TO YOU. IT IS A CALL TO ACCEPT DIFFERENCES. TO STAND PROUD. TO FEEL SAFE, AND SPREAD LOVE.
3. THIS IS A WELCOME TO EVERY PERSON, TODAY AND ALWAYS. TO REJECT DIVISION AND SPEAK YOUR MIND. TO BE SAFE OUTSIDE AND IN.
I could barely keep up with the flurry of words that fell onto my page on Friday night. I wrote more than three thousand of them. They came racing out of me in a rush. It felt like taking dictation from a fast talker sitting on my shoulder, shouting in my ear. I’d think I was finished, close the lid of my laptop, only to open it up again, and write more. My words were emotional, beseeching, and angry
The screed was my response to an essay written by a friend this week. Not a close friend, but someone I’ve been getting to know here in Substackland. Her essay was centered on her feelings about trans women. Her belief is that they’re not “real” women. The essay was harsh, poorly researched, unkind, and lacking in nuance and curiosity.
I never thought of her as a person who harbored ideas that I perceived as blatant bigotry. Her words stunned me. Her essay felt like a slap in the face and my heart hurt while I read.
I was clear in my comments on her post. I was floored. Then I stepped away from the conversation. My reaction stayed with me for the next couple of days. The sadness, the anger, my surprise. I felt grief for trans people and for my friend––for all of us who think we have a right to determine what’s true for others.
I wrote and wrote when I’m usually asleep. My words were disorganized. I spewed on the page. It helps, sometimes. But a lot of what I wrote last night won’t make it to this version. Taking some space to think about it, to give myself pause. A good night’s sleep would have helped. I didn’t get the sleep, but I did get some clarity.
When I woke up, I was blurry; my usual 7- or 8-hour break was shortened by my late-night scrawl.
On Saturday, I sat down to my weekend writing ritual. A ritual that begins with coffee and contemplation. A quiet conversation with the muse I call Grace. I summon her and ask for help, for love and gentleness as my starting place, instead of writing from the muddle I was in.
I asked for the wisdom to go forward and write from my heart with grit.
As I was mulling with my muse, I received the text my sponsor sends me every day; she shares her reflections on 12-Step wisdom, mostly the teachings of Bill W.
Today, her topic was tolerance. I laughed when I read it. My upset lifted instantly. I had my jumping off point, the theme for this essay. Initially I was thinking I’d tell my friend all the reasons that her beliefs are wrong. That’s not my job, which doesn’t mean I won’t speak my piece. But if I try to convince her that her argument is flawed, I’m missing my own point.
The point IS tolerance. It’s not either/or, it’s and and both. Reliable Grace hits the scene just when I needed her most. But to access the power and wisdom that Grace provides, I must be open and willing to receive it. To not have all the answers. To not know.
I find my writer friend’s argument lacking. I find it ugly, frustrating, and ignorant.
I’m not an authority on this subject, and I’ve gone through my own evolution about it over the years. It was once hard for me to understand, but I got curious. I asked questions and made friends with trans folx. At first, I was a little uncomfortable, but that was my issue to explore. It never meant that trans people should just cut it out, so I’d feel better.
My friend’s premise is that only women with female anatomy are real women. In her view, trans women are just men who’ve altered themselves chemically or surgically. She didn’t delve any deeper than that, forgetting about the “real” women who are born without a uterus or ovaries (it happens) or people who are born intersex (with both male and female genitalia).
I grieve for a world that doesn’t have the bandwidth to respect difference. To see our differences as gifts. To be able to discern the battles worth fighting and the ones that aren’t battles at all and step away, say, “peace be with you, I don’t understand, but that doesn’t make you wrong. It just means I don’t understand. And maybe I don’t need to. Maybe, I can just let it be what it is.”
Tolerance isn’t the same as acceptance. It’s a baby step. It’s a start. It’s an adult behavior that can lead to better outcomes for all. The classic question is “can we agree to disagree?” That seems to be a very hard thing for us to do. Agree to disagree.
But what if we could all step back from our rigid beliefs, our firmly held ideas, and go a little deeper? Push ourselves to get curious. Put our fears to the side, for even a few minutes, to question ourselves? What triggers us to be hateful and critical? We behave like self-proclaimed experts on topics we don’t fully comprehend. We don’t want to understand the nuanced, the many-layered, the story beneath our fear or revulsion.
Look a little a harder, maybe? Because we’re more than our bodies, we’re more than our beliefs. I’ve come to a place in my evolution where I’ve accepted that we all have souls, spirits, and they’re made of love. Our true essence is love. All the other stuff we pile on top obscures our beauty. Our purity. Our goodness. And each other’s.
I do want to share some of my feelings about trans people here, because I’m pretty sure my friend will read this essay. Yes, right now, she’s still my friend. I’m not walking away because we disagree. Not right now, anyway. Not right now.
When I was a little girl, I was frustrated. I was frustrated because the world I lived in, the one that was my only frame of reference was filled with rules that didn’t make sense. Boys could do boy things, and girls could do girl things and there would be no crossing a very clearly marked line in the sand. The problem was that I wanted to do what boys could do, too. Why shouldn’t I? Why were there so many rules?
I never wanted to be a boy. I just wanted to be myself, and the self I wanted to be was allowed to build things, to not play with dolls, not wear dresses, not have long hair; I wanted a crewcut, instead. I didn’t want to stay home and take care of kids. If I wanted to be a doctor, I didn’t want people to tell me, “No dear, you can’t be a doctor. Girls can’t be doctors. But you could be a nurse.” What?
Take my example and then tweak it a tad. Let’s say I was born a little girl, but being a little girl never felt right. I wanted to be myself, and the self I wanted to be wanted to build things, not play with dolls, not wear dresses, I wanted a crew cut, and liked bow ties, and didn’t feel like a girl at all. I felt like a boy, like my little brother. And it wasn’t just a thought, it was an all-consuming longing for something I knew was true about me.
But I didn’t have the same parts as him. What could I do? Nothing. Suffer. Feel wrong all the time. Get depressed. Become suicidal. And maybe I might kill myself. Why?
Because something was different, something was wrong and needed fixing. My theoretical other Nan.
Why were there so many rules?
I’m not going to get into the science of this. There’s plenty of science that validates being born into the wrong gender. That’s not my fight today. Because my argument is not about science. There are experts who are qualified to take care of those arguments.
As a queer woman and a Jew, as a person with epilepsy, and a history of depression, I know what’s it like to be alienated and laughed at. I was branded as other, ostracized, bullied, and feared.
I know what it’s like to be a target. I know what it’s like to feel all alone in the world, and I know what it’s like to yearn for belonging. For me it was belonging to the greater world. The world outside of me.
I can’t imagine what it would feel like to live in a body that I felt I didn’t belong in. That didn’t belong to me. To feel like an impostor, to live in a state of confusion, troubled by the expectations placed on me because the gender by which I was defined didn’t fit how I felt.
Can you imagine a person choosing to transition because they want the pain and the possibly dangerous consequences that might come as a result of their choice? That they’ll be subject to people who despise them for existing, for questioning, for wanting to live an honest life, and be respected for pursuing the gender that they know themselves to be.
That they might be murdered just because they wanted to be themselves. Yeah. I can’t imagine choosing that burden unless it was the thing that would save my life.
Making a choice to transition is one of the bravest choices I can imagine, especially in this time of epidemic intolerance and hatred.
My friend objects to trans-activists. In any fight for acceptance there have to be activists. It’s the only way change can come. “Why do they have to be so in my face? I wish they’d be more discreet.” In other words, “Please hide yourself, so we can pretend you don’t exist.”
Unacceptable.
Remember women’s suffrage, the Civil Rights movement, Viet Nam, 2nd wave Feminism, Gay Rights, AIDS, Me Too, Black Lives Matter, Pro-Choice? No change comes unless we open our mouths, and make ourselves seen. Sometimes (probably always) we need to swing to the extreme so that when the dust settles, and change comes, we can arrive at a middle way.
Maybe it’s time to open our minds as well as our hearts to the possibility that we don’t have all the answers and maybe the changes we’re seeing––the fluidity of how we define ourselves is part of our evolution as soul bodies. I’m embracing the idea that the skin bag I walk around in, is a container that totes my soul from place to place so I can interact with other souls, without labels, race, genders, or pasts. Maybe we can meet each other in our wholeness and see beyond the bodies that convey us through life so that we may witness the beauty that exists in each of us and ourselves. It’s hard work, but it’s doable if we give up the need to be “right.” If we accept that it’s okay to not know, to not understand.
And if that’s too tall an order, here are some final words of wisdom, from me to you, with love:
Fucking coexist already. The rest? It’s none of your damned business.
I read a beautiful piece in The New Yorker this week, shared with me by my pal . I hope you’ll be able to access it for free. Written by a father about his son who transitioned to being his daughter. So much love in this essay and such gorgeous writing.
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