outies

Ted would be 57 this year. I say "would" because I haven't spoken with him for more than four years, and have no real proof that he's still alive. A couple weeks ago I got it in my head to ride my bike the 20 miles to his home that was being built at the time I saw him last. I don't even know if I got the address correct. I rang the doorbell, my forehead covered in sweat despite the coolness of the day.

And waited.

Ted instructed me, for several years, on the organ, a beautiful tool landed here on this mortal coil from nowhere else but the heavens above--there can be no other explanation for its sound and existence in all of Christian liturgy. Its presence speaks of power and of glory and of forgiveness and of the grit that mankind waddles through on any given day. The triumph gets blown out of those pipes and into the souls of men.

---

Ted was raised by a housewife mother named Shirley and a Methodist priest father named Laird. He had a run-in with polio in his youth, forever damaging his ability to walk without discomfort, or with normalcy. These were the days when polio was thought contagious to any breathing the same air. Before the age of 10, Ted had spent almost two years in a hospital, in an air tent, away from touch, away from family, friends, love. A freak, thought of as a goner from the get-go. But he persevered. He has drawn two separate pictures in words of each of his parents to me. In one, they are the caring people you'd expect from a progressive faith, encouraging the rights of women and tolerance for those who were different. They were godly. Ted was different. In the other, they were distant, stoic figures, carved of marble, staring at him through plastic sheeting, distorted, distant. A childhood duality never fully overcome.

In spite of his crippled legs, he lunged heartily into physical therapy to increase his mobility and use. For years he would go, three times a week, to the therapist who would put him through the most mind-numbing pain possible, tortures with the hope of regrowth. With time, he was able to walk, his left leg shooting out wildly with each step, the ankle uncontrolled, his right bearing most of his weight. Even at the age of 53, you could still see him lose the battle to hide a wince when going up a staircase, a malady carried for decades. Music was a way to perform as admirably as any football star, and so it became his channel. The organ was his most prized target, the Brobdingnagian features bending to his nimble fingers like no jog ever would.

He went to school endlessly, his face forever buried in books on music, earning him two Masters degrees, both in the genre of music. A success story of a broken, raging youth piped into purposes of renewal. A renewal he never really met.

---

There's a bar downtown, here in Denver, called My Brother's Bar. "I'm gonna go grab a drink over at My Brother's," we'd say. It was like family, there: light, classical music through soft speakers, quiet conversations, good, thick beers on tap. Ted and I became regulars there, a pitcher of Newcastle or Guinness split between us, over which he would spill his fears. I became the therapist he never had, and he always paid for the drinks. Sometimes, after a particularly good conversation, he would drive us both to the church where he is organist, and we would play music, late at night, in an echoing sanctuary. Music talking to us through the instrument, calming the nerves. A conversation with the immortal. The church was called Hope.

Some nights, when the alcohol would remove from his mind all barriers, the weeping would be inevitable. He would talk of things he never could express before, and I, his closest confidant, would listen and support as much as I could. For when the music was inaccessible, he would reach for the bottle, in classic alcoholic mannerisms, to calm his blistering rage. "I'm gay," he told me once. "I've never been able to tell anyone that." My own sexuality was never in question, my ears apparently the safest thing he'd ever met. "I love you."

---

Ted never answered the door. Neither did Shirley, with whom he has lived since Laird's death in the 80s. He knew I could not give him the physical relationship he so desperately needed. No one, really, could. But I rode my bike to what I thought to be his home, and left a letter I had written the last sleepless night. In it, I included my new telephone number and address, that he might write back, or call. He has not. And I cannot blame him.

Four years have passed, and his tools have changed. It is likely that he still takes pay from the church where he was organist, likely still attends to his alcoholic needs from time to time. But when I could not be the channel he so desperately needed, the direction likely changed. I still wonder if his aged mother is still picking her careful steps through plush carpeted floors or if she, too, left Ted to deal with life alone.

The following are some of my diary entries from when I transitioned (with the names removed). Please bear in mind that these are just one person's experience and aren't intended to represent a whole minority group or anything.

December 1999:

I was just sitting in the same room as my mother, hiding my face with my left leg, and I started crying and she noticed. She asked what was wrong, and I said that's just what I'm like around Christmas. She asked me what was wrong again. I said I didn't know and ran into my bedroom, in the dark. Unfortunately, she soon followed me again and tried to have a talk. I knew she wouldn't go away, so I told her everything. No more secrets. I told her about the cross dressing and about how the more I learn the more I realise I know less about myself than I previously thought. She said it was all in my head and said I was "fucked up" (I know I'm always saying I'm fucked up, but it's not exactly a good thing to hear coming from your mother). Then she went off on one about how I was a normal boy a year ago. For a start, don't call me normal or a boy if you want to get on my good side. And I've been like this as long as I can remember, but it's only just now beginning to surface as it's been growing since it first started. This is how long it's taken for it to get to the outside. I've always been screaming below my skin, but now you can see it. When I said that she seemed OK with it a while back? Clearly she wasn't, she was just in major denial. Eventually she left the room. I was extremely emotional right then, and far too vulnerable to lie. After crying to myself for a bit I finally got up and wrote this.

January 2000:

I got some eye shadow today which looks pretty neat so I'll be sporting that down the pub this Friday. I'm also getting some boots with a co-worker in London tomorrow. Plus I plucked my eyebrows a few days ago, and one of my friends at work was the only person that noticed, or mentioned it anyway. Probably the former.

July 2000:

My mother told me about when I was in high school and one of my friends who lived near me would walk home with me. He'd have his head up high and look confident, while I'd hang my head down, all slouched, and generally look depressed.

August 2000:

I watched Ma Vie en Rose again, with my mother this time. She said "It seems perfectly sensible to me that there's lots of left handed and dyslexic transsexuals, you're wired up wrong." She really annoyed me by smirking throughout the whole thing no matter how much I insisted that I was being serious saying that my brain was wired up differently to the standard way, not wrong in comparison to "normal people."

I finally went to London to see a psychiatrist. At the train station, none of the doors to the train seemed to want to open, so this woman who presumably worked there shouted out at me "First four carriages, my dear," and it took me a good few seconds to work out that yes, she really was talking to me! I just can't explain how that felt to anyone who's not a transsexual. Sorry, but it's kind of indescribable to finally be perceived as how you perceive yourself, in the correct manner, when all your life you weren't. I mean, you probably take stuff like this for granted but all of the little things, getting called "sir" or someone saying to me "Well done man!" can really make me depressed. It was just great to hear people refer to me like that woman did, and especially so from women. For some reason, whenever a man calls me "my dear" it just sounds condescending and like he's trying to establish a dominating figure over me, whereas a woman saying it might as well be calling me comrade or sister or something.

The psychiatrist I saw seemed much more down to earth than I was expecting, though said one or two odd things. I think it was just "bloke" humour though. At any rate, he gave me the prescription after hearing all the relevant parts of my life story, so I'm still really happy about that!

Once I got back to the town I live in, the first thing I did was go to a local chemist, a small shop type affair. The guy at the counter checked that I really was sure what I was taking, and gave me the oestrogen gel right there and then, and ordered me the oestrogen pills for Monday.

My coming out letter, sent to my co-workers:

Hi!

This is just a quick message to let you all know that I'm an MTF (male to female) transsexual. This means I was born with a discrepancy between my mental gender and physical sex, and I am taking the necessary measures to fix my body. I have been on hormones since mid August and although there is not much difference yet, after a few months the effects will be hard to hide. Eventually I will have to be treated with the correct pronouns etc but for now I just wanted to let you all know to avoid confusion. I hope this clears a few doubts you had as to just what was up with me. :)

I think it is fairly important to add as it is not well known, that being a transsexual is not something that I chose to do. If I could not have transitioned, I really would not have been able to cope with life at all, and would have ended it -- sorry to be so detailed but I can't think of any way to tone it down while showing how serious it is for me -- which is the only choice any TS I know of has had to face. No one ever chooses to have the discrepancy between their mind and body and it's not much of a choice to fix the mistake. It's just something that happens and I should be a lot happier (and apparently already am) the closer I get to having a body that fully reflects who I am.

Although most people on my shift and [my friend's] shift are now calling me Zoë, you can all call me [my old name] for a long while yet. As long as you avoid phrases like "it," I really don't mind. ^_^ This letter is more to let you know what's happening and why, rather than to prompt any changes you need to make.

I appreciate everyone's support for this, thank you. It means a lot to me.

Thank you,
[My old name].

August 2000:

OK, so yesterday I came out at work, via e-mail. I mean, my shift and [my friend's] shift already knew I was Zoë, but not the rest. So I sent an e-mail to everyone at work, and got lots of fantastic replies and no bad ones, yay!

That e-mail always seemed like such a big deal, until about five minutes after I'd noticed it had been sent out (the rough draft was accidentally sent out by HR), and that's when I'd calmed down, realising no one was coming at me with sticks or anything, and that's also when the flood of e-mails started, most of which were from people I'd never talked to. And they were so touching...

September 2000:

I'd like to think that today has been rather productive, much better than my usual days off work where I sit around getting lonely. I got my name legally changed to Zoë! Then I watched Good Will Hunting on DVD again, and half way through I suddenly noticed how I was cuddling a cushion tightly throughout the film, and I cried through the emotional bits, which I'm sure I didn't do last time. And I never hugged cushions, I'm sure of it. In fact, I distinctly remember questioning why we had them a year or so ago... Then I got another appointment with the psychiatrist. I told the secretary that my name's now Zoë, and so she called me that, and that felt just great... It's just the little touches like what people call you that can make all the difference. I still acknowledge that I've changed my name way too early, and I just know my boss is going to have a fit, but I really don't care. I couldn't take it any more and that's all that matters in the end: I needed to do this. Later on, I met up with a friend so that I could hold his hand while he got his tongue pierced. Apparently when he was talking to the piercer, it transpired that he assumed I was his girlfriend. I'm not sure whether I'm "passing" or he was just trying to be charming, but he treated me just like any other woman, which really did top off a great day.

October 2000:

Everything at work's been updated, my e-mail address and my login, so when I log calls it says I logged them and not my old name. I can't tell you how great it feels to see my name on everything at work wherever I go now. It's like I actually look forward to logging calls because that's my name that goes there.

October 2001:

I was so nervous today. This was the day I was going into hospital. My girlfriend hugged me in bed. I love her. We went to the wrong hospital on time, and had to quickly go to the right one. I forgot what my nails look like without black nail varnish. I was given a laxative-esque drink that tasted of really sour lemons, but in a good way. The staff are friendly.

I now know what my surgeon for tomorrow looks like. He reiterated the risks to me. Twenty-five percent chance I won't have enough sensation to climax. Ten percent that I have to come back for more surgery. My mind is made, I'll take the risk. I know the risks. I'm too nervous right now to be reminded of them the night before surgery. I'd like to feel my lover's gentle touch inside me one day. It's not your fault, it's nature. These things happen. I still dream and I hope that dream with her and I as ourselves becomes a reality.

I haven't eaten anything solid since noon. I'm not seeing the two people I love, my mother and my partner, until after the op. I've had apple juice and really thin soup. I had the laxative-esque drink. I've just shaved all of my pubic hair off. I feel OK.

I'll be awoken tomorrow at six thirty, have a bath, get nervous and be unconscious by eight hopefully. I know how this is futile given how I'll type this up afterwards, but: wish me luck. It's OK, lots of really nice friends already have. I'm already lucky - I already have great friends, a supportive mother, and a lovely girlfriend who's the cutest and most beautiful woman I've met.

I've had a bath. I've had a relaxing pill. I'm told to relax. I look at my picture of my lover. I smile.

---

That's it. I hope this helps someone, in some way, anyway.

Update: As someone reminded me, scientists pointing to the hypothalamus claim that transwomen's brains are the same as any other women's, and transmen's brains are the same as any other men's. This indicates that the brain of a transsexual is wired up the same way as a non-transsexual of the same gender (or opposite sex, to look at it another way). So they're not even wired up differently, let alone wrong. As someone else reminded me, scientific research in this field is too young, and gender too varying, to be able to come up with more than improper generalizations about brain chemestry. This is really beyond the scope of this write-up, but if you're interested in the subject, I'd recommend Anne Fausto-Sterling's book Sexing the Body, ISBN 0-465-07714-5.

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a novel by English author Jeanette Winterson. It is the story of a young woman in a highly fundamentally religious community who falls in love with another girl and is shunned by her family and congregation.

The novel, which happens to have been Winterson's first, is written in the first person and is narrated by its protagonist, Jeanette. Jeanette tells the story from a hindsight perspective; several years seem to have passed between the events in the story and their retelling. This allows for heightened contrast between how Jeanette felt about the events at the time during which they occured and how she felt about them as she retold her story.

Winterson has indicated that the novel is at least partially autobiographical, though she has refused to say to what extent. Many of the events in the novel parallel events of her own life, particularly the circumstances surrounding her adoption and various aspects of her relationship with her mother. Winterson was adopted, just as her fictional character was, and both adopted mothers sought to make their daughters into missionaries.

Jeanette's mother has devoted her entire life not only to the service of God but also to a universal conversion project. She believes that it is necessary to convert the entire world to Christianity within ten years. She has even gone so far as to adopt her daughter because she didn't want to partake in sexual activity -- even for the purpose of procreation. She belongs to a highly religious community. It comes as more than a bit of a shock, then, when Jeanette meets a girl named Melanie, they fall in love and have a physical relationship. This does not sit well with either the congregation or with Jeanette's mother.

The novel has frequently been described as a coming-of-age story. Jeanette is forced to deal with a heightened sense of self while attempting to come to terms with the anger and hostility her community feels. Throughout the course of the novel, she discovers who she can truly trust and who has betrayed her.

The title is derived from a statement made by a mistress of a king during the middle ages (this tidbit was shared by my English professor, but now I can't seem to find the specifics); it was taken to represent the woman's view that the 'proper sort' of woman was not the only sort. Oranges are brought up in the text on several occasions, and are usually taken to represent the mother or the community's ideals of the status quo. Oranges are offered to Jeanette by several people during the novel, particularly in parts where people attempt to make her conform to their standards of sexuality. It does seem, however, that Winterson might have chosen the novel's title before she came up with the use of orange imagery (the historical background behind the title supports this) and many readers and critics believe the imagery was overused. Then again, it worked for a lot of people. Your mileage may vary. teleny also points out that the use of the term 'orange' is also loaded in a religious sense, as orange is a colour that is often associated with Protestantism. (Thanks!)

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is an example of post-modernist literature. It contains several sub-storylines, all of which parallel the main storyline in some way. Winterson breaks away from Jeanette's narrative to share stories that are almost fairy tale-like in nature. One, the story of Sir Perceval's quest for the holy grail, borrows heavily from Arthurian legend. It (like the other interjected storylines) is told in fragments, each of which bears some resemblance to Jeanette's quest for understanding and self-sufficiency.

The novel's eight chapters are named after the first eight books of the Old Testament. This is a direct reference to the religious overtones and themes that exist within the book, and are particularly relevant to Winterson's apparent 'rewriting' of the Bible from an entirely new perspective. It's also interesting to note that the events or themes of each chapter do bear some resemblance to the events or themes in each corresponding biblical chapter. For instance, Exodus is the biblical chapter in which the Israelites are given God's law. In Oranges..., it is in this chapter that Jeanette's mother lays down her own laws for her household¹.

There is also a certain amount of intertextuality in this novel. It mentions, among other texts, Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market. Though it is only mentioned briefly, it does allude to relationships between women and attitudes towards them.

The book was fashioned into a television miniseries in 1990. Winterson wrote the screenplay. I haven't seen this, but based on the Internet Movie Database's entry², a few changes appear to have been made. Jeanette's name has been changed to Jess, perhaps because Winterson was not entirely comfortable with the novel coming across as an entirely factual account of her life's story. This is mere speculation, however.

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is certainly imaginatively written, though it will almost certainly not appeal to everyone's taste. Its best qualities are its plot and thematic values, however the characterization of Jeanette will drive a lot of people up the proverbial wall as it sometimes seems as though the narration is written in such a way so as to evoke as much pity as possible from people. Since there's no way to know how much of this was derived from Winterson's own experiences, though, blame cannot rest exclusively with her.

---

¹ While I haven't seen this concept in any reviews, it was a major part of a presentation given by one of my classmates. It makes a lot of sense.
² http://us.imdb.com/title/tt0098032/

Although I do not choose the word "homosexual" as a label for myself, others do, and many of them hate me for it. More common than overt hate, though, is subtle hate. Discomfort. The "Not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that-but-just-don't-try-to-force-your-gay-philosophy-on-me" set; the set that pretends to themselves that passive hatred of "homosexuals" is better than active bashing.

This election is a huge disappointment to me.

The gay-marriage thing was never important to me per se. I am a thinker; I see the gay-marriage amendment as thoroughly over-politicized on both sides. Bush's Constitutional Amendment banning gay marriage was never even close to becoming a reality, and this was known by all (educated) parties from day one. Bush put it forth for political and symbolic reasons, and it became a "wedge issue," forcing politicians to take a stand on a subject whose eventual implications were, and for the foreseeable future, always will be, only political, not legal. It affects very few people, it's an emotional issue, it exposes deep philosophical differences-in-approach of the American population, and yet it isn't nearly as important as many other things on the national agenda. It's a lot like flag burning in that regard. It is a red herring; a tool to get people angry, excited, and politically vocal. It probably encouraged a lot of Presidential votes on both sides; (which is ironic, since both Bush and Kerry had the exact same position on the matter of gay marriage, even though only Bush "supported" a Constitutional Amendment to prevent it. . .) And nonetheless, a President's position on gay marriage doesn't have any important effect on the legal bottom line; at least not right now. Of course, gay-marriage referenda are a different story, though. Those do have the potential to affect daily life for same-sex couples.

All of the above is to preface what I ultimately have to say about the matter. I just want to make it clear that I am not blindly and reactively angry, and I don't see the political field as one in which 'only homophobes vote for Bush, and if you don't hate 'homosexuals', then you must vote for Kerry, period.' It isn't like that. It's worse.

It's worse because the simple-mindedness by which many Americans approach the issue of gay marriage is the same simple-mindedness by which they approach the War in Iraq, abortion, gun control, International relations, France, taxes, education, social security, medicare, and anything else I can think of. I have yet to be pleasantly surprised by the amount of thought the 'average American' puts in to any issue. Of course, I must rush to add that I don't necessarily know any 'average Americans,' and I am not in any position to evalute this matter objectively. I have only anecdotes, and the plural of anecdote is not data. But shit, man. My fears are not data-driven. All I HAVE to go on when it comes to my future in this country is the information I've derived from my experience. So in my estimation, the average American voter is not an independently-thoughtful, principled, compassionate person with deep personal convictions and love in his or her heart.

The average American voter, as far as I can tell, believes that disagreeing with official government policies is unpatriotic and even deserves punishment. The average American voter, as far as I can tell, is driven not by love for all people, (or even all Americans), but rather by hate for those who disagree with him. The average American voter has made up his mind on every important issue long before any discussion ever started. The average American voter thinks God likes them more than He likes me, even if they SAY that "God loves all people equally." Sure, He may LOVE us all equally, but I mean, hey, He'd rather go get a beer (but not get drunk, of course) with the Methodists. God, says the average American voter of my understanding, would prefer to love 'homosexuals' from a distance.

Insofar as Bush's proposed anti-gay-marriage Amendment motivated Americans to vote for Bush, this year's election serves as a startling symbolic, public, humiliating reprimand of we Americans who have chosen to partner with persons of our own biological sex.

The average American, it would seem, is afraid of what same-sex couples will do to American values.
To be sure, that fear is mutual.

Using both qualitative and quantitative analyses, the present study demonstrated the complexity of the identity integration process between homosexual and religious identities as pertaining to a select group of gay and lesbian Christians attending a specific gay- positive church. The issues of identity integration and involvement . . . presented here illustrated that not only is the Christian religion an important part of these individual's lives, but that many of these gay men and lesbians go [to] great lengths to live openly as both a homosexual and a Christian.¹

Node your homework, and present it to your professor via E2!

The above is the conclusion to a published study I was assigned to read as part of my LGBT200 class at the University of Maryland, College Park. The details of the study are very academic, but the concept the paper examines is one I have something to say about.

As a philosophy student, I see most matters as being more complex than they are portrayed by mass media. Often, I even find they are more complex than they are portrayed in brainy academia. I often find myself agreeing with people's ultimate position on a matter but wildly disagreeing with them about their reasoning. Or dissenting not only against the majority but also against fellow dissenters. I think it's important to understand exactly why one holds his position.

All of this is to explain that the matter of reconciling one's identity as 'gay' with one's religious identity, (in the case of this study, Christian), depends enormously on precisely what one means when he says "Christian," or "gay". Most of the seemingly reason-based arguments about this matter come from enormous equivocation surrounding the use of these terms.

When one says that he is 'gay', he could mean, variously, that:

• He experiences same-sex attraction, and identifies as a member of some gay community
• He experiences same-sex attraction and yet does NOT participate in any gay community
• He experiences same-sex attraction and has occasional same-sex experiences and participates in a community of others who also do
• He experiences same-sex attraction, and has routine same-sex experiences with a live-in partner, and yet does not adopt any gay culture for himself
• He experiences same sex attraction but is not sexually active, and either does or does not participate in gay community


And so on.

The point here is that "gay" means a lot of different things to different people, and this leads to severe miscommunication. Statements like, "homosexuality is wrong" are practically meaningless in light of the variety of meanings contained in the word "homosexuality" not to mention the implied meanings that are to follow from such a statement. That is, does the speaker of the phrase, "homosexuality is wrong," mean to say that:

• Homosexual behavior is morally objectionable
• Homosexual thoughts are morally objectionable
• Homosexual feelings (which precede homosexual thoughts), are morally objectionable
• Persons who engage in homosexual conduct are morally objectionable as people.
• Persons who experience same-sex attraction, even if they decline to engage in homosexual conduct, are morally objectionable, perhaps even disgusting, as people, merely because they have experienced such attraction.

That last one -- about people who experience same-sex attraction being morally objectionable as people, or disgusting -- is rarely voiced, but it seems to be just beneath the surface of much "anti-gay"² rhetoric.

Furthermore, the term "Christian" is similarly ambiguous. The difference with this term, though, is that many self-identified Christians believe that they own the meaning of the term, and therefore, as 'true Christians', are able to decide the criteria for its correct usage. Let's be clear on this, then: It may or may not be true that God, insofar as He has any opinion concerning contemporary English, has some very specific definition of the word "Christian" which would doubtlessly supersede mine (and yours); but the fact remains that we English-speakers do not have any access to God's dictionary. We mean a LOT of different things when we say the word "Christian". If God has specific criteria for salvation -- a position I will not dispute here -- these criteria are not embodied in any one word. Words' meanings are determined by the speakers of such words, and "Christian" is a contemporary English word with multiple contemporary English meanings.

This is where the most vociferous disagreement takes hold. Since many of those who identify as "Christian"² believe that being "a Christian" requires that certain behavioral rules are followed, the term is, from their perspective, reserved for those who follow such rules. Other people who identify as Christian decry such rules, saying that "being good" isn't the point, and that instead, the point is whether one has been "saved" or not -- whether one has embraced Jesus Christ as his "personal Lord and Savior." But this definition also fails to include all self-identified Christians. Many Christians identify as such because their parents were Christian. Or because they go to a Christian church a few times a year. Or because they believe that the Christian Bible is divinely-revealed.

The less-seriously-religious "Christians" and the more-religious Christians have a big disagreement on their hands about what makes a Christian a Christian -- about what requirements one must meet to use the term legitimately. That is an argument I will leave to them. There can never be a human authority to settle that matter, because it is a matter of semantic preference.

The point is this: Since "gay" means a hundred things, and "Christian" means a thousand things, there is nothing necessarily inconsistent about identifying as "Christian" and "gay" at the same time. It just all depends on one's defintions of those two terms.

---

1. Rodriguez, Eric M., M.A. and Suzanne C. Ouellette, PhD. "Gay and Lesbian Christians: Homosexual and Religious Identity Integration in the Members and Participants of a Gay-Positive Church." Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion. Publication date or issue number unavailable. p. 346.

2. I feel compelled to use quotes for such terms because there does not appear to be any consistency in just what the terms "gay", "anti-gay," or "Christian" mean.