Saturday, April 16, 2016

About These Bathroom Bills




Our country is currently in a heated debate over a slew of legislation that aims to dictate, once again, just who is and isn’t allowed to use the restroom in public. The brawl is brewing around our societal understanding of gender. These laws are primarily being written and supported by a segment of the population for whom gender is firmly binary, and who tend to view any other expressions of gender with extreme distrust and disgust. Some go so far as to call it ‘morally perverted’ to veer from what to them is an obvious and static descriptor about the human race.

These bills are purported to be about insuring the safety of the general population, who are supposedly at risk of sexual attack if forced to share a public bathroom with someone who presents as something ‘other than their birth gender,’ which is based solely on genitalia and not the person as a whole. There is no evidence presently available to support this supposition of bathroom sexual violence, however, and we have been peeing with Transgendered people for a while now, whether we knew it or not. I would go so far as to hypothesize that the actual number of sexually violent offenders amongst a random sample of Trans people would be much lower than the percentage of sexual offenders found in a similar sized sampling of Cisgendered people. My reasoning centers around the fact that Transgendered people are not in the habit of volunteering information about the composition of their genitals, and most actually find it incredibly rude when asked about them. The thought of publicly exposing said genitals in a public space would not be high on any Trans person’s list, much less forcing a sex act on someone with them.

Trans folk are terribly at risk of both sexual and bodily harm in public bathrooms, though, make no mistake about it, and this law, if enforced, would exponentially increase their risk of death or bodily injury by forcing them to out themselves in order to comply.

We are allowed to be deeply frightened or angered or both, but that does not mean that every action we implement in response to our emotion is warranted or inherently justifiable. In the end, what terrifies us may not bother another in the least, and then it becomes a numbers game, as to what is deemed socially appropriate and acceptable. It is all a matter of perspective, and everyone gets to have theirs. I hope we can agree though, that if our response endangers or adversely affects even a single fellow human, or, god-forbid, an entire segment of the population, that we owe it to ourselves and to society to freeze our actions and analyze our situation. Can we put into words why we feel the way we do, why we are afraid? Can we have a conversation about our fear without it devolving into shouting or violence? Have we ever met or spoken with someone whose identity or belief system triggers our fear? If we have, did we let them speak and could we hear them over our own fervently held belief?

Interestingly, this conversation is a non-issue with the majority of the younger generations, due largely I believe, to the fact that they have grown up with the internet and have been exposed to a multitude of diverse and very real stories shared by their peers and complete strangers alike. Story is absolutely magical in its power to unite us through shared experience. It is a very difficult thing to truly listen to the lived experience of a fellow human being and fail to find some place of connection and relatability.

How would you feel, in your fervently held belief, if someone came up to you and said that what you believe is evidence to them of a stunted intellect at best, and a mental illness at worst? You would understandably be angry and defensive, so why is okay to say to a Transgendered person that they are perverting a natural law by ‘messing’ with their gender and are suffering from some dysfunction? In truth, it is a supremely arrogant act to declare to another sentient, free-willed being that the way they are doing their life is wrong. We have the right to share our ideas and to ask questions of people whose ideas differ from our own, but it is never our right to tell another person what is proper for them.Transgendered people are simply PEOPLE with feelings, hopes and dreams, families, jobs, stresses and worries, just like each of us.  


A good rule for genitals might be: if they don’t belong to us, our opinion about them doesn’t matter. 

Deathbed





Sometimes I think about you on your deathbed and I wonder if I’ll want to be there. The part of me that wants to hear you say it is the most susceptible to wanting to be there, just in case, you know? The part of me that gets to decide whether to grant you forgiveness while still on this mortal coil, so you can take it with you to the gates of Heaven where it may or may not make a difference when deciding your fate, that part isn’t really sure if it wants to show up to be asked the question. That part, and the small, squirming part that still wants to be in love with you (I will NEVER again be in love with you) really want you to be a stand up person before then, before the Hail Mary brought on by your secret fear of death, and for you to simply say you are sorry. That you’d take it back if you could. That you understand there is no such thing as it not happening, but you know now how wrong you were and how much you hurt me.

But your shame won’t let you say it, your shame won’t even let you think it. You try your hardest NOT to think about it, but it is ALL that you think about.

I know, because I have struggled under the weight of my own shame, and I have been feral and drawn blood in my efforts to remain blind and innocent. But there is no escape from this truth, it will haunt you beyond your grave.

There is so much freedom in saying it out loud. Owning it and laying it down, taking the punishment and serving it out like a reformation. This is not all there is to you, your shame. But your refusal to graduate the lesson keeps you bound up in it, you’re choking on it, it’s the thing that makes you a lie, the thing that haunts your soul and keeps you from ever feeling rested.

All of me believes in the Hail Mary though, even if I don’t want necessarily to admit it to you. All of me believes in the power of a present moment to immediately change a lifetime of *truth*. 

All of me believes in mercy, because there is no such thing as perfection, there’s just learning or not learning.

Everybody Loves Bacon

*caution* strong violence



The day it all came flooding back, the day I remembered, I indulged in a revenge fantasy. You'd have to know me to understand how great a departure that is from my regular, but it even caught me by surprise. 'The Day I Remembered' may be an overstatement, since in actuality it took many, many years of focused effort to recall it. Total recall. Hah. That's an inside joke on my present age and patriarchal upbringing. All you need to know about it is that I revered and emulated some horseshit ideals for entirely too long and for no other reason than that some serious brainwashing brushed itself up against my good natured nature to believe.

Anyway, imagine my surprise as I sat myself down and closed my eyes, all the better to set the scene, and what a horrific scene it was, my revenge.

You were tied to a chair uncomfortably under a naked light bulb. You were fully clothed though, this isn't erotic, this is deadly serious. The days of you being my hero and crush are finally, ok definitely NOW, behind me. And Goddamn you for inserting yourself into that hardwired primacy, you fucking motherfucker. Not your place or your call, but per the usual that's news to you.

Back to this story, though. You're in a chair, tied up and I decide that your face looks delicious. This is an odd thought for me to have, because I am a squeamish carnivore. I don't enjoy the thought of something dying, bleeding out, so that I can survive, but just at this moment I have to admit there is nothing in this entire world that I would rather eat than your face. So I walk up to you, and I remove your face with a knife. I am interrupted in my flow by this question: do I render you unconscious before I take your face or do I make you consciously endure the pain of its loss? I also hate loud noises, not just death, so I opt to knock you out with an uppercut that dislodges your atlas off of its axis before I take just the skin of your face, leaving all your facial muscles intact. 

I've got a skillet warmed with some grease. I take the thin skin of your face to my cutting board and make strips, like bacon, like pork jowl. When the temperature is right, I fry your face but make sure to keep it tender in the middle, crispy on the edges, and guess what, it really does kind of smell like bacon. My stomach gives a growl, just in response to the stimulus of the odor. 

You're still not conscious as I sit down across from you with my plate. Looks like we'll be testing out the theory then: can you remember something that happens to you while you are in a state of semi-consciousness? 

I have a strip of your face bacon in my hand and I am about to eat it when another terrible idea interrupts my imagined vigilante court proceedings: in order to consummate this particular revenge, I will have to allow you, once again, into my body and then wait for you to exit my asshole as a turd. 

This is intolerable, all my pleasure at these imagined dark deeds evaporates immediately and I open my eyes. You are not seated across from me, and I can only pray that you still have your face. I am suddenly swept up in a fierce heat wave, my whole body feels like it's run a marathon on the hottest day of the summer and I am sweating profusely. Next come the tears, from some mystery cavern I had hidden in my belly and they will not stop, in fact they're multiplying and I am afraid that all that will be left of me at the end of this is a dried out husk. At some point, the wondrous machine that is my body begins to retch. I just let it, I let it all go, I'm not even all here this is some kind of purging ritual that my body knows all about and I'm just hanging onto it, loosely. 

God, bodies. They are so ridiculously messy, just look at all this. Where did it even come from? I mean, I look like a decent girl, most of the time, and this is some kind of nightmare sideshow thing. I have to remind myself to breathe.

After it all stops, after I am physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted, that's when I know for sure. I don't want to eat your face or torture you or make you hurt and bleed. I just want you to take responsibility and tell me you're sorry and mean it. 

In lieu of that, I peel myself out of the muck and take myself to the shower. The rest I'll deal with later, no thanks to you.
 

Monday, January 18, 2016

breadcrumbs




You perpetrated an act and left the scene
status intact, theft covered over
leaving me to unbury the truth
with a trail of clues
                    like
the way my left foot curves inward
impotently shielding my weakened feminine
                    or
the way I always feel, deep inside,
that something only mine was
taken before I even knew I had it
                  or
my habit of giving myself away for free or very little,
a childish defense intended only to lessen what’s taken,
not realizing my power to make it stop
                  and
the fact I believe I deserve
to live lovelessly for acts I parroted in infantile rages,
desiring to destroy another as I had been destroyed
                 or
the myriad ways I self-sabotage
a self-prophesied, self-compromised almost ran
too often conquered by her fears

The body has a memory of things the mind can’t bear to see