when transphobia hits close to home

Silence Kills.

When Transphobia Hits Close to Home

03.23.2014

Reality check: just when I thought I might be “safe” working for a large corporation and comfortable with my co-workers, I received a wake-up call to transphobia in the workplace. I had unfortunate, bad timing to overhear a conversation between crew leaders at work concerning their opinions of transgendered individuals.

A crew leader (not my own; he was not there) says to other crew leaders and employees relating his time spent in Taiwan, eating at a restaurant, “This thing was our server. I cannot call it a person. It had an Adam’s apple and titties…I asked it ‘You have a job? Laugh, laugh, laugh.’”

I became almost physically sick upon over-hearing this language. My ears burned. My stomach felt heavy and my head spun dizzily. I retreated into the woods, out of hearing of this conversation as it got worst, talking about what they would each do if they discovered that the “woman” who they might hypothetically solicit for sex had a dick…And now I do not know what I feel. Guilt? Fear? Disappointment?

I go over that conversation in my head and fantasize that I was brave and confident enough to stand up to transphobia in my work place. But, though it is fine form to say on the internet or amongst a supportive community of friends, “Wipe out transphobia!” It is an entirely different situation when transphobia itself sits down to lunch with you at your workplace. Mostly I dissected the conversation and retreated back into my safe, “stealth” closet, very alone and sometimes afraid again. But, for the record, these were the thoughts swimming in my head, keeping me awake and re-iterating that this is not okay here!

“This thing was our server”: I do not think I have to say that calling a person a “thing” is wrong and transphobic and about as low as you can perceive another human being. But, the use of the work “server” further illustrates the prejudice of this statement. Rather than call their server a “waiter” or “waitress”, which might imply that this “thing” was a person with a gender, male (waiter) or female (waitress), and deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, this statement completely de-humanizes the person who was waiting on them. This kind of language kills—kills both spirit and body—and leads to worldwide plague of suicide and homicide amongst transgendered people.

“It had an Adam’s apple and titties…”: again the use of the words “it”, rather than “they/he/she” utterly robs this person of inherent personhood. And the use of the slang “titties” shows great immaturity and general disrespect for those women (misogyny) who have “breasts”. Goddammit! We all have biology degrees here! Is it too much to ask that we use accurate, scientific language instead of naughty, inappropriate teenage slang?!

Finally, “You have a job?”: Really? Why not? Did the person who served you your Taiwanese meal do a bad job? Were they as rude to you as you were to them? Did they bring you rotten food? Spill your drink in your lap? Or spit in your soup? Why should they not have and do a good job as a waitress/waiter/server after all? Do they not deserve to have work and livelihood based upon your narrow definition of personal physical appearance? What do you expect them to do? Is the only work you can perceive that a transgendered person is fit for, sex work? Drugs? Prostitution? Of course we have jobs! Normal, regular jobs! Right under your nose! On your very crew you supervise and in this very same project!

Like I said, I am still trying to process all that this has awaken and alerted in me. I know that our corporate policy expressly forbids discrimination in the basis of gender and sexuality. Our work crews are fairly diverse from many backgrounds, colors, and stripes of persons. But, as far as I know (and being that I am fairly ubiquitous), I am the only transgendered person working for this company (or at least on this project in this region). But, though corporate may protect my job, there is no accounting for personal behavior of the persons I work with daily. I am similarly protected from harassment, but, in this case, though it made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe, I cannot say that I was personally harassed by this crew leader. It was a third party conversation about someone who does not work for our company. And not even aimed towards me as I was not an active participant of the conversation, but an eaves-dropper only.

And yet I struggle with the after-effects of this conversation and I am thankful that I was not an active part or had to sit through it and respond. I know it is these attitudes and conversations that continue to marginalize and kill our people. But I did not at all feel brave at this point. So, maybe I am a coward. Or maybe I am culpable for not speaking up. At the conclusion of this man’s harassment to his server, did this person in Taiwan, go home in tears? Did they finally have enough of such inexcusable treatment, that they killed themselves? Am I similarly responsible for this? Was this a cycle I could not hope to stop, spinning out of control half way around the world, and rearing its ugly head in my workplace months later? I hid in the woods safe from transphobia in my workplace. That is the truth and I have to live with that—and the fear. But, what would you have done instead?

You see, though I appreciate your empathy or sympathy in this situation as you sit at home and say, “I am sorry you had to go through that or hear that at work,” I was not actively harmed by this employee interaction. But, I am of a community belief that every action (and inaction) has a profound effect on our own environments or communities. That hate speech creates not only fear and anger at the moment it is uttered, but resounds around the world and through all ages as negatives energies or spirits for all time. Each individual in the world community and their words/actions create their own trophic cascade on the rest of Creation; just as what occurs to the herbs affects the herbivores, affects the predators, affects the herbs. So, if I go to work on Monday and find that it is more transphobic than before, it is because this conversation occurred, surely; but also because I had the opportunity to speak up and stand up for love and peace, and I did not. I do not say this to cast guilt or responsibility on myself, but because I learn and relearn this lesson dearly every day and every moment.

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2014. Artwork is property of its respective owners.

coming out, full circle

“I am looking to the future and see all of that new life to come as an adventure—a hard one indeed—but an adventurous and positive journey just as well.” Photo by Leslie Danger, 2012.

Coming Out, Full Circle

02.04.2013

I try not, but sometimes I must look over my life and the changes in it that have occurred since I “came out” as two-spirit (transgendered). It shows me where I have been and what I have overcome, and steels me for the future and what will come. And I think sometimes that people are amazed and I hope inspired by the stories of their peers, brothers, and sisters in the LBGTQ community.

I do not recommend the method I used to “come out”. I wrote a letter to all my relatives and sent it in the mail. When my parents and aunt got the letter, and realized that I was sending it to everyone, they intercepted the mail of my grandfathers to shield the Old Ones from it. Later, when they had a time to talk amongst themselves, they allowed the grandfathers to read my note. They need not have worried; the Old Ones were the least affected by my announcement and I recall my grandfather pulling me aside at a family cookout, and leaning in close, he kissed me on my cheek, and said, “I don’t care who or what you are. I love you and I will always love you.” The rest of my family would have done well to be as adaptable as the elderly unexpectedly were.

As it was, my parents had a hard time adjusting to my new gender identity and are still adjusting. I expected to be kicked out and I expected to be disowned. I did not expect tears. My father cried. My mother cried. I could not console them. They would grieve for many years before coming to a place of cautious acceptance. I always knew that they did not ever stop loving me. But I have thought since then that their love was somehow “tainted” or that their pride in me was reserved for only parts of me, “not this.”

One of my brothers would not speak to me for two years, or attend family events if he knew I was going to be there. That first holiday season I spent away from all family, homeless. But, I “snuck into” Christmas at my parents the next year when he was there, and had not been told I was coming. He is getting better each day, and I think his new wife is a positive influence and advocate for diversity, since we are now talking, texting, and being together at family events again.

I have an identical twin sister whose reaction is still up-in-the-air with the reality that her identical twin is now her fraternal twin. She sees this as a betrayal beyond the physical; as if she does not know this person who used to share all her secrets anymore. I think we have lost something of the unique bond that twins share and I grieve for this each day I have lost with her since. I am uncertain where we stand with one another at this point. I am mostly confused by this. However, returning to my homestate someday soon, I can work on this relationship and try to ascertain what is happening in my absence with her.

Today most of my family’s reservations have less to do with me personally, and more with how they will explain things to others as family friends see the very obvious changes in our family dynamics. “I thought you had twin girls?” or “How is C*****?” and having to explain that I am not that person and do not have that name anymore. My family calls me by a fairly genderless childhood nickname, not my birthname very often anymore. But after thirty years, I doubt they can ever drop the feminine pronouns to refer to me, and I give them that. They are always trying and getting better. I have been away from my home-state and family for some time now and given us all space to reconsider and grow “used to” the idea that I am now their son and brother after so many years as someone else.

I lost friends and I lost my husband of ten years one cold December night, when I left my marriage home in the middle of the night, and never returned. I was immediately homeless and lived for two weeks in the back of my truck, before being given a bed in a [woman’s] domestic violence shelter. There just was no place else for someone like me to go. I lived in a rural area with few resources for the homeless; this was the only place I could go in the county. There were no shelters for men or families like in the cities. Eventually, I moved onto transitional housing with a roommate at an apartment for people between shelters and independent living. I finished my associate’s degree at a community college during this time, and even moved into my own supported-living apartment for the first time since I was 21.

I could say that I “lost my faith” also when I “came out” as well. I vacillated for several months whether I was a sinner of choice, or was born this way. I was raised a Christian and in another time and place, I would have been one of those rabid evangelicals holding signs that say “God hates gays.” Good friends from my former church told me that if God wanted me to be a boy he would have given me a penis when I was born. One by one, these friends dropped out of my life, and little by little, I did lose my faith.

If we take a snapshot or an overview of my life at this moment when all seemed so bad, it amazes me how much I had lost: everything—financial (homelessness, loss of income), social (friends, family, church), emotional (stability), and spiritual (church, faith). In a way, everything that makes up a person’s essential identity was gone from my life. But as the story unfolded, I can look back and see how though this was tragic and immensely difficult, it was also a rare opportunity for a second chance to rewrite my whole story in a positive way.

For a time, having lost everything that made up who I was, I was greatly lost. I cannot stress how horrible this time in my life was, but how very necessary as well. I considered suicide many times. I began self-harming and cutting. I wrote sad and disturbed poetry. And I had no one to turn to, as friendless and without a faith-base as I was.

But when you question everything you ever knew or accepted about yourself, starting with the most immalleable characteristics of your identity, your gender, then also you begin to question all the things that make up who you are. And from that time I began rewriting my life and my identity. I looked at each facet of my identity and examined them all under the lens of free thought; the idea that everything was compromise-able in my new identity.

Having lost everything or changed everything that made me into the person who people knew up to this point, I was able to look at each facet or item independently. It was like everything—socially, spiritually, and emotionally, was laid out in front of me in a large lump of malleable clay. It was ready to be reshaped. As I took up each insensible handful of clay and examined each part of it subjectively, I asked how each item was serving me: was it helpful, was it necessary, was it good? I examined my core spiritual beliefs and the guilt associated with “being a sinner”, and rejected that teaching. I examined how I felt about myself and my poor self-esteem and made the decision to love myself as I was. I examined my “victim-status” I had donned from childhood abuse and poverty, and cast it off. And I placed these things which did not serve me aside, and used the rest to begin the reshaping: starting with my gender identity.

And though the process is not complete, I can say I like where it has taken me. I have replaced church friends with allies and the friends-closer-than-family. I am now at a place to accept their unconditional and undeserved love and it has given me clarity. I am not always pleased with how my body looks, but I am also at a place of acceptance in that. I have made positive changes in my spiritual life as well and found the Good Red Road of the two-spirits, which tells me that I am not a sinner or an outcast, but valuable and necessary to all life. It tells me that Creator does not make useless people or mistakes, but that I was born into this identity. I was not born “into the wrong body” as a victim but I was born two-spirited as Creator always intended. I have a real spiritual duty to the earth, my fellow beings, and myself as a two-spirited person. I replaced the guilt and rejection of the Christian faith with the Red Path of the ancestors. Nature is now my church and the earth is my mother. I have survived suicide and self-harming behaviors. My emotional state has stabilized, though I am ever vigilant and continue to be in counseling. I am becoming financially independent again, having now obtained a bachelor’s degree and some experience in my field. My continued absence from my family, who live in another state, has made all of our hearts grow fonder. Time away has been good for all of us as we all work out how we fit together as family again. I am looking forward to being reunited with my tribe and family and all I left behind soon. All goes in a circle as it should.

People who knew me “before-and-after” are equally amazed at the changes they see in me, even beyond the physical appearance. They either have forgotten that “other person” who existed in a microcosm of intolerance for thirty years, or they remember that sad person and applaud and love the new one who has emerged a more positive being. Sometimes I think that my life began in 2008 when I “came out” and that the person who existed before has died. But I cannot deny that I was raised a certain way and socialized as a different gender and person, but have somehow survived the better for it, or despite it all. Sometimes I feel very young, like a teenager just graduating from college at this point, and learning how to make his or her way in the world. But sometimes I think that “this is not my first pony-ride,” and I have the experience of a thirty-six year old as well. That is part of being two-spirited as well: seeing with two lenses—the experience of a whole life lived and the newness of one yet un-lived. And I am looking to the future and see all of that new life to come as an adventure—a hard one indeed—but an adventurous and positive journey just as well.

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2013. Artwork is property of its respective owners.

the gods must be crazy!

Sometimes I think that the gods must be crazy to have created someone like me. What were they thinking? It’s like they took a bunch of spare left-over parts, put them in a big melting pot, mixed it up, and whatever parts they chose randomly, that was their Creation! I think a Trickster must have been involved in the jest of Creation!

First off, I was born an identical twin to my sister. My twin was a pleasant surprise since they never detected two heartbeats and ultrasounds were optional (and expensive) then. We were premature and I was very weak and small. I spent extra time in the hospital as all preemies do. My Mom worried the whole time that she would only ever bring one baby home when she had given birth to two. Then she worried that some kidnapper would steal one of us, saying “You have two; you can spare one.” But that never happened, thank the gods. But a real trick was played on my poor mother: she thought that she had given birth to two girls!  Now I am one of the few people in the world who can rightly say, “I used to be an identical twin; now we are fraternal,” as I grow more and more in the two-spirited way.

Then, the gods got silly and gave me a disability and made me a part of a marginalized minority; actually, part of several marginalized minorities. I am autistic, I am Haudenasaunee, and I am two-spirited (transgendered, FTM). Why would they thrust all this on one small person who barely survived their birth, I do not know! The gods must be crazy!

As a joke, they even let me toy around with traditional Christian church and traditional marriage for ten years before pressing me into service as their two-spirited mediator. I was married to an Orthodox rabbi for ten years, no children of our own, before coming as transgendered. And seeing as being gay or transgendered did not fit well into the Orthodox way, I left that marriage in the middle of a winter’s night. The gods then saw fit to harden me before opening me up: I was homeless, I attempted suicide, I began cutting myself as I adjusted to the changes, the loneliness, and struggled through my first associate’s degree on my own.

The gods gave me just enough intelligence (and the associated learning difficulties) to barely get my next bachelor’s degree, something no one in my biological family has attained. But they made it hard to get that degree, marking a thin red line where I shall not pass. I could not academically do more; I barely made it on this tether. So, they intend that I use my hands and some of mind to do their work, but mostly my hands. I will never be an academic caught in the laboratory all day; I will always work outdoors in all weather, in all conditions, and with my hands for the trees and for the gods who made me just smart enough to get this far. The gods keep me humble and connected to their world through my limitations. I hope they make my body stronger to keep up with this lifestyle they have given me!

Then, they gave me the ability to write my heart, and speak to trees, and feel spirits. They gave me a sacred trust to be a two-spirit, an advocate, and a rainbow warrior in the way of the old Hopi legend. They said, “This one will reach for the stars,” though, and I have gone farther than any of my siblings, farther in travels, in education, in experience, and open-mindedness.  In a way I feel like I have left my biological family far behind as a temporary holding-place for this strange child that they had been given. I have outgrown them in some respects. Where they are now, in their lack of acceptance and denial of my two-spiritedness, unless they can go beyond that, I will leave them far behind, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. It is sad. But, my family now reaches far across continents, across cultures and color, and across boundaries of blood to all my relations.

Then, the damages done me in my youth as a victim of abuse, in my marriage, and to myself, healed, and the person who emerged from the other side of the annealing furnace, was not someone I would have recognized in years past, nor would I have befriended this person in my former close-mindedness. Friends that I had before and after this time in my life often remark that they do not easily remember the person I was before. Sometimes I do not recall that person either! It is like I was reborn, went through second puberty (at aged 30!) and was just born 5 years ago when all the gods laughed and my destiny finally collided with the hardest time in my life.

So, here I am now, a bit delayed by my early development as I tried to be who I was not: not a girl, not Jewish, not Christian, not a victim, not a mistake. The gods are crazy to have made someone like me and let me try out my life on my own terms without them, but they did not make a mistake! Of that I am certain as I look in the mirror and look in my soul and see things I finally like about myself. Trickster has had a pretty good joke running for some years, but I am the last one laughing. The only way to make dross into gold is through the fire, and I have been through it once (and I pray they are not done yet either)!

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2012. Artwork is property of its respective owners.

shorts

*A collection of short poems. Sometimes the less said the better.

Blood

04.29.2012

I have a little blood on my shirt,

It reminds me that I am human

After all;

Like the scars that say to the world,

“I have survived this.”

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2012.

Fog Horse

01.11.2012

The fog horse is creeping down the mountain.

There is thunder in January.

Magic comes down to Earth…

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2012.

Melancholy Muse

01.08.2011

The heights are heavy with snow,

But turn your back to the wind,

And tuck your hands deep inside,

Do not dare look up,

For you are not allowed to

Feel good things.

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2011.

Nature

04.27.2010

Nature brings out the Child

In everyone:

Girls giggle.

Boys laugh at girls.

Frogs leap hand-to-hand.

Mud everywhere.

(C)henry francis rehouse, 2010.

New Boots

07.06.2011

New Hikers,

 Bad-ass Boots,

Stomping, Thomping, Jumping,

My Feet Love You!

Red Mudders!

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2011.

“But you stand tall,/ Declaring war on time.” treefinder & Gyfa,with old, hollow “Drum Tree”, the “trail tree” part having fallen off its upright trunk and laying on the ground. Bully Hill SF, W. Almond, NY

Old Sentinel

02.20.2011

Branches like bones crush under my feet.

These are the skulls of your ancestors,

Scattered shamefully.

But you stand tall,

Declaring war on time.

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2011. Including artwork.

thin red line

Thin Red Line

12.11.2011

When I started on this journey, I could not see it. But now that I am here, almost at its end, this thin red line is all that is between me and a future. And it is all I can see, as long as infinity across my path. If I had known that I had to jump this thin red line from the start, I may not have ever tried so hard to get here in the first place.

Have all the trials I faced and overcome worth nothing now? I moved immoveable obstacles to get to this thin red line. I climbed mountains of poverty. I was homeless, friendless, relentless. I rolled away boulders tall as mountains: depression, autism, suicide, learning disability to get here. But I guess I am not destined to be a story-line or a happy tale of overcoming obstacles I once believed that I could be. So I am stuck talking to it, and I bargain with the thin red line:

“Can you not, thin red line, please just let me by? Just this once? See how far I have come? All the expenses I have made, the expectations everyone has; the disappointment I will become.”

But the thin red line mocks me, “You need to be better.”

“I have done my best! I have never stopped trying my best! Look at everything I have climbed over!”

“No.”

“Can you just make one exception?” But, I get no second chances; I knew at the start. I came too far.

“Are you sure there is no way around this thin red line?”

“The line is stained with the blood of those who have tried.”

“Then what is there for me?! Where do I go?!”

“Go back.”

“I can’t; there is nothing left there. The path behind me has crumbled and burned. I will fall.”

“Then you should never have come!”  

“Oh, thin red line, I balance precariously between you and nothingness: I will die. Move! Move thin red line! Move for me! You are killing me, thin red line! My blood, see on the path? The line thickens with it now. I cannot cross. I will not cross. The. Thin. Red. Line.”

 

(C) henry francis redhouse, 2011 (artwork is property of its respective owners)

i made it through the night. that does not make it all OK. but it is something i did not have yesterday.

*this and the preceding poem “I walk a little slower these days” were written following a suicide attempt by me during college. I think it needs to be here for those who think about such things. Sometimes just waking up in the morning is life “getting better”.*

I went hiking to decompress this afternoon. I have never hiked there before. A trail goes all the way around the lake on a ridge. I got to a hemlock grove and there was a doe sleeping in the sun there. I talked quietly to her as I approached. I asked her, “Are you sick too?”, since she did not readily move when I came so near. I snuck up on her and took a super close picture. She woke up and looked at me with her glassy eyes. I took one more step foreward and she bolted. I put my hand where she had been and felt the still-warm spot in the forest duff and hemlock needles. Energy coursed thru my palm and filled my mind. The hemlocks and the doe told me that *this place* was “the healing place”.

So I walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. I did not feel like jumping but sitting there. I drew a medicine circle in the shale dust on the overhang and sat down. I took off my backpack and put it outside the circle. Then took off my watch and placed that with my bag outside the circle. I took my camera out of my pocket and layed it outside the circle too. I took no pictures of “the healing place” because it is best remembered in my mind . I wrote a little in a small field journal I carry with me when I go out hiking. but mostly, I listened. I saw. I heard. I felt. I lived agin.

Finally, I layed down in my circle and slept for about an hour, the sun warming my front, the warm rocks warming my back. I shook awake. I was thirsty from laying in the sun . My eyes were blinded by the setting sun low and bright on the fall horizon. I was physically weak but more spiritually strong. I finished my walk around the lake with new eyes and new heart and new mind and new soul, shaky on my new legs. I saw wonders. I experienced a thousand things around me. I climbed, I jogged, I hiked and finally went back to the truck. Still foggy from everything, I drove home. A burnished orange fall sunset winked as I passed. And now I am writing this.

Things may still not be OK. But I am OK. I love you and forgive me the worry I cause you. You are a whole  world to me. I am blessed beyond belief by your love. Thank you.

*she* told me that this place was “the healing place”

(C) henry francis redhouse, 2012. Including artwork.

i walk a little slower these days

I Walk a Little Slower These Days

12.10.2010

I walk a little slower these days,

Because I am always

Looking for a reason to live.

I once lost that:

Lost all feeling,

Lost all caring,

Lost all reason.

I once almost died,

Diving blindly into chaos.

Until something stopped me

In my tracks,

And time stood still,

As I raised the gun,

And breathed one last breath,

But never exhaled;

That last breath left unfinished,

Life unfinished,

Life unlived,

Breath unbreathed.

And as long as I can hold

That one last breath,

I can never say that

I breathed my last.

And I walk a little slower these days,

Because I am always

Breathing;

I am always looking

For a reason to breath.

(C) henry francis redhouse, 2010.