Striped Naked: Called to Vulnerability

The following pieces of writing both stemmed from a prompt at a writing workshop. I've left them sit untended for a while, uncertain about how I felt going public with the immense vulnerability that they are rooted in. After an extremely painful conversation today where I was reminded that many people see my gender as a curiosity, a lack of self-understanding or something to be frightened of I decided I did not want to hold back any longer. 

To live into the gift God gave me in my gender I have been asked to accept the responsibilities of a marked life. I am invisible in much of mass media, and often struggle to find representations of others who share my gender experiences. At the same time I am highly visible, and a simple request to be addressed by the correct pronouns is often derailed into detailed questions about my hair and voice, my history, or even if I have had surgery. The worst part is no matter how well I explain, how open I am, I am still rejected, objectified and erased on a daily basis.

There are no easy solutions, no instant answers. For tonight I'm not even going to try. All I can offer is a peak into the window, a glimpse of what that burden feels like, as once again I've been cast out into the night. 

When I am naked I feel…

            This question is wrong because it focuses on the end. Naked is a state, a destination, the end. But the journey is what is important, where the feeling begins. The end means nothing if it never begins

            Naked in a crowd, stripped down to my deepest parts, no secrets left, you’ve torn all from me. Every shred of privacy is gone, no clothing remains, no tattered fabric to shield my dignity. I consented to this torture, this daily routine. The erasure of self-worth, to reclaim what might have been. I let you do this day by day. Taking away my freedom, in the hope that I might be someday.

            I answer your questions, comment on your forms. I repeat again and again the secrets I’ve born. My scars are a story, as is my life. Told so often, that I no longer can claim them. The feelings are gone, worn down by the stares. Yes I repeat, I was really there. I lived in hospitals, the streets and alone. I’ve been chased out of bathrooms, churches and home.

            These stories were clothing, that wrapped me tight. Now you have taken them, along with the light. Darkness closes in, wrapping my frame. I’m naked again, and again and again. Will I ever be like you? Free to stay dressed? My story my own and not your quest? I’m not an activist, a hero or a saint. I’m a person whose shivering from giving all I have left.

            I held nothing back, sold all as demanded. So I stand before you naked and spent.

But this isn’t the journey I’ve wanted to take. To become a display, a model, a saint. I just wanted a chance to explore this gift.

To lay down the lies.

 Shedding the fabric of illusion that we might embrace what it written. 

I want to take off my clothes myself for a change. I want to see you as naked as me, not as a punishment, but a gift. I want us to embrace, to come together. To let the boundary fall. To see ourselves as ourselves and to delight in being naked together.

            But I stand at the door, my clothing rent.

You stand in front of me, clothed and aware. Can’t you see what it’s like at the mercy of the air?

Don’t you feel awkward, secure in yourself, stripping me again and again to satisfy your curiosity, yourself?

Clothed in Love

            Standing naked in the cold, the door blown open wide,

            I have nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.

           

Shivering & shaking as hope grows dim

            I dare to ask myself what might have been.

            I chose this path, this stripping routine

            To invent the self that I hoped could be seen.

           

            Fatigue settles over me, one final try.

            Is it almost over? Can I be set free to die?

            No, a voice whispers, close and aware

            Don’t fall victim to Babel’s despair.

           

            Be clothed in my love, I’ll hold you tight

            Shielding you, my dear, from the dangers of the night.

            A thin fabric winds its way around

            The force of eons held in its bonds.

            Invisible and sheer, I’m still exposed

            But Love is the answer that blunts all your blows.

            All the trips and careless words.

            The countless times my pronouns go unheard.

            I feel them crash in,

            Their power strangling the might have been.

            Yet I cling to this love,

            To this skin that binds

            Myself to myself

            Freed from prying eyes.

            I can share without fear

            Answer any question

            For wrapped in your love

            There is no hesitation

            I’m clothed and I’m nude.

            The boundary is broken.

           

            Stripped naked again

            But never forsaken.

The Blazing Butterfly Saga Part 1: Origin Story (Acts8 BLOGFORCE)

 This is a fitting time to open the caverns of memory and begin the tale of how I became the person of faith I am today. You see, this Wednesday, November 19^th is golden anniversary of my baptism.

Me, November 19, 1995

I was raised in a conservative evangelical church and heard the message that baptism equaled salvation for my entire conscious life. Even as a precocious six year old I knew I needed to be baptized. So I asked, and asked and kept asking until the youth pastor agreed to baptize me. A tiny girl in a dress came forward, and upon being asked “Amanda, do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the son of the living God”; I answered with a loud “YES”, eliciting chuckles from the congregation. A reading from Acts followed, with another short homily, providing time for me to change. Then we headed out again, my head barely visible above the foliage that decorated the baptistery. A quick splash, and bang, instant Christian.

Or so I thought. In fact I kept believing this was it throughout most of my childhood. I spent my summers at VBS and church camp, amazed the AWANA’s leaders, was a card carrying member of the 66 club and competed in Bible Bowl.

By high school I was about as “Christian” as you could get, fully indoctrinated into the fundamentalist ideal. For example I once got in trouble in zoology for arguing against evolution. Not only was I a Christian, but I was THAT Christian, the one you didn’t want to sit next to for any length of time.

Summer 2012

For all I appeared to belong with that church, as I hit my teen years I began to have questions, and began to realize the answers I was being given where  on the cheesy side (another example: 1 cross + 3 nails =4given was considered adequate for theological reflection). At the same time my youth group gradually became the source of the most painful peer-pressure, feminization & the purity culture. Warned repeatedly about the evils of sex & sexuality I didn’t learn what “gay” meant until college. Worse my withdrawn tomboyish tendencies were seen as my fault, a failure to be the good Christian girl I was supposed to be. 

Christ in Youth, 2012

All these influences culminated at the 2012 Christ in Youth Conference. In order to help me “fit in” better the youth group girls decided to give me a makeover. My hair was straightened, my face painted and I was told to wear the one dress I had brought with me. As we walked to the evening worship service I was aware of an intense discomfort, like everyone was staring at me.

Then the first song started to play, and I found myself seeing a woman dressed in armor standing in a field. I heard, well it would be more accurate to say felt, the following words within my bones. “You have a battle to fight, but I have chosen you and I love you.” The intensity of the contact, the fullness of love and belonging were foreign to me, and I was scared.

I asked one of the youth pastors for help that night and was told that I was demon possessed. If I just prayed harder the demons would go away and I’d be able to be normal. 

Actual Sign in KS

That was the day I left Christianity, turned my back on the church and accepted that I was going to go to hell if such a place existed. The years flew by, I dropped out of high school, got my GED and started college all before turning seventeen. At college the counseling center directed me to the campus Gay Straight Alliance. There my world was finally opened to the possibility that I could exist. This group also taught me a new form of hatred, an unquestionable belief that Christians were the reason we could be fired, denied health care and being kept away from our families. In all fairness, this assessment of Christianity in Kansas wasn’t entirely flawed. Christian signs and symbols are everywhere, proclaiming a message of hate. 

Eventually I realized that I was transgender, and began to transition in earnest. As I grew into the young man I needed to be at that time I found myself embracing a new confidence. I began to smile more, to enjoy getting up in the morning. As I settled into this new identity, as Andrew manifested his realness, I found myself freed to reexamine some of my abandoned questions. Around Christmas 2011 I realized this included faith. I went to church on Christmas that year because I missed the carols. As I was going back to the church I had grown up in I planned for two contingencies. A)I would be accepted as a stranger as no one would realize that I was the same person as Amanda or B) They would be furious at me for showing up and I need to have my arguments on why I could be transgender & Christian ready to go.

What actually happened was option C. No one said anything to me. I felt disjointed and out of place, sitting in the back, watching people I had grown up with move past me as though I were a ghost. Then the music started, and I found it reaching me in a way that the people couldn’t. Keep looking something inside me whispered. As we closed with Silent Night I felt a longing that I couldn't explain, yet still couldn't avoid.

So “see if I can tolerate Christians” made its way into my New Year’s resolutions. By this point I was active as a transgender educator on my campus, routinely taught workshops that explained exactly why tolerance was insufficient to offer another human being. Still, tolerance was the best I could muster for this unspecified “enemy”.

In early January I set out to make good on this resolution. I’d chosen the one church in town that had sexual orientation included on it's website, a family sized Episcopal parish I’d heard mentioned as friendly several times at work. Reluctantly I pushed my way past the bright red doors and found a seat in the back row and tried to look invisible as I wasn't sure I even belonged here.

Thelo! Mission Trip May 2012

Invisibility failed, I was quickly approached by someone who realized I was unfamiliar with the service. She welcomed me fully, showed me how to use the prayer book, and whispered instructions about communion. The sermon could have been written for me specifically, it’s exploration of the life-long nature of baptism fed the little girl I’d spent years running away from. In the midst of that Eucharist I found myself being held by something that I had thought was behind me.

 Over time tolerance evaporated, edged out by respect and love for these people who dared to show me that I could fully exist. For the first times I heard that the eager childlike faith I’d tried to abandon was completely compatible with my queerness. I found this was a church I could be, grow and find myself transformed.

Thus began my journey, the first steps towards coming home.

Tune in next week for EPISODE TWO: CATECHISM, CONFIRMATION & THE FORMATION OF A SUPERHERO (or something like that!)

TL;DR, Superhero Synopsis:

Strange forces surrounded Andrew Amanda from their earliest spark of existence. This young hero has undergone a gut-wrenching transformation in the depths of hate and despair. Brainwashed as a child, exiled as a teen, they have recently broken forth into new life. Meet the eager faith of childhood, watch as it is cruelly twisted into a mockery of religion before being dissolved in the acid of ignorance. Watch as the brave hero-to-be battles the forces of hatred and fanaticism within two communities. Will they make it to the shelter of the fortress guarded by the bright red doors? Can they survive the pressures of this world pushing them to conform? Welcome to the first installment of the BLAZING BUTTERFLY SAGA!

 

A Journey of Coming & Going: Queer Theology Synchroblog

This story was originally published as a video on Youtube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62xcriglTfM.

I decided to republish the story in a text format to participate in the 2014 Queer Theology Synchroblog.

The queerness of the story lies in the fluidity of the protagonists identity, the child's ability to be themselves as a boy, a girl and both with relative ease. The theology part for me comes from a firm personal belief that our ability to have identities, to name ourselves, is part of what it means to be made in God's image. By following this character on the journey away from home and their return I found an easy way to share something of what I've experienced in my cycles of wandering and homecoming.

Identity Quest: A Genderqueer Children's Story

A long time ago, in a distant land a child was playing alone.

As the child played a question formed, echoing unspoken within the child’s soul.

Leaving their toys aside they raced to find their mother.

 “Mama, Mama” she called.  “Yes, my daughter” came the soft, gentle reply.

 “Mama” the child repeated, “who am I?” “Silly girl” the mother replied, “you are my daughter, is that not name enough for you?

Now take your doll and go outside to play”. 

The child, while not questioning the mother’s love was not satisfied with the answer she had given.

So he raced to his father. “Da, Da” he called.  “Yes, my son”, came the deep, resonating response.

“Da” the child said again, “who am I?”  The father sighed, then smiled.  “My son, you are my son, is that not name enough for you?

Here is your ball, why don’t you go outside and play while it is still light”.

More conflicted than ever the child went to the two wisest people they knew.

“Grammy Dee, Grammy Fee” the child called to two people who had watched over them since they were young.

 “Can you tell me who I am?  Mama says my name is ‘daughter’, Da says it’s ‘son’, but I just don’t know.”

 “Child” spoke Grammy Dee, “Your name is something that you alone can find”.

“Here”, said Grammy Fee,  “take this basket and see what you what you discover.”

The child took the basket and after settling the doll and the ball carefully inside they began to roam.

First he went to the sea, the immense waves crashed against the shore, showering him with a cool spray.

The water went on forever, blending with the sky above. As he walked along the ragged edge of the shore he found an old green bottle, fastened securely with a cork.  Carefully he opened it, thinking for a moment that perhaps his name would be written inside and his quest ended.Finding it empty he set aside his disappointment. Then he filled the bottle with water from the sea before replacing the top and carefully settling it into his basket.

From the ocean’s edge she then journeyed to the prairie.  Here too the world seemed to go on forever as she stared out over the endless stream of grasses. Dancing through the fields, delighting in the beauty that surrounded her she plucked a sunflower from it stalk, and nestled it gentle with her other treasures in the basket.

Next the child came to a garden,  long neglected but overflowing with flowers of all shapes sizes and colors. They delighted in the chaos and in the faint hints of neglected patterns. As they circled the garden each circuit revealed new treasures. Finally they selected a fallen butterfly, rescuing it from the dirt. They gave the creature a place of honor among the items they had gathered.

For a time the child wandered from place to place.In each place another trinket was gathered, a small thing to remind them of what had been, seen and done. In time fatigue set in, and the child began to miss the place once called home. Still the journey continued as the child was determined to not return until a name, and not just any name, but a name that fit perfectly, had been found.

Just as the child had nearly given up a crossroad appeared on the horizon. Standing in the middle of the road a creature of brilliance stood, watching. Light flowed out of the being, who towered over the child.

Gathering what courage remained the child approached. “Bright one, I seek your aid”.

The radiant giant knelt to meet the child’s eyes.  “Little one, what is your request?”

“I seek my name, to know who I am and where I belong” the child answered, voice shaking.

I’ve been wandering for so long, but all I’ve found are these trinkets.

The being glanced at the basket, now overflowing with stones and flowers, acorns and tufts of fur

and smiled before speaking, “Perhaps what you seek, you already know and carry.”

With that the creature of light rose, bowed to the child and then vanished as though never there. 

Reluctantly the child let out a sigh before moving to the side of the road and flipping over the basket.

Stones plopped, leaves blew and a bit of fur nearly escaped before a small hand quickly snatched it from the air. Feeling the softness off the tuft the child found themselves sinking slowly into memory. With touch, smell, and sight the whole journey was re-lived.

Each perfect dawn,

 each cold night of terror, 

the moments of peace

and the ferocity of the storm were remembered.

In the wave of memories a pattern began to emerge, carried on the tide of awareness. A sense of selfhood, of being that was not limited to the experiences spread over the ground, but deeper.

I, the child thought am not the sum of these experiences, yet these are a part of me.

 As for my name, what name could possibly reflect such a full journey?

If any one place, beautiful or horrible, had been left out, then my understanding would be completely different.

As they looked on a sense wonder rose within. A new appreciation for the journey filled every inch of the child’s body. I know my name, the child thought.  

It really is quite simple. I am the basket and all that is inside it.

I am the doll and the girl who played with her.

I am the boy with the ball

and the child with the butterfly.

I am the one who stood on the mountains

and played in the sea.

I am, and because I am I can also become. 

Warmth filled their body, love and respect for each part of the journey, each gift of experience.

Slowly the items were gathered and placed reverently in the basket. Then the adult picked up their treasures and turned their path toward home.