My Dearest Daughter, I Wish You This...

The love of my life. 

My precious daughter,

You amaze me. You have such a sunny disposition, a loving spirit, and you may be the funniest person I've ever met. Your inquisitive mind will serve you well. Your willingness to help and the care you show for the discomfort of others will make you a valued friend. But this world will not always be kind, and so my little sweetheart, I wish you this:

That you never forget how to say no. My sweet girl, you can be downright ornery. That's okay, you're three. But I love that you can and will say no. And insofar as it does not compromise your safety or risk enabling bad behavior or entitlement, if you say no I will comply. Someday it will be vital to your health and sanity to be able to say no with confidence. Do not apologize for saying no. I would hope you always promise only what you can deliver and deliver more than you promise if humanly possible, but you are not responsible for everything. Others must take responsibility for their own actions and inactions. Further, there may come a day when you simply feel uncomfortable with what someone wants from you. No one is entitled to your compliance. You say no, it means no.

That you realize not everyone you care about will care about you, and that has nothing to do with you. A lesson hard-learned in my own life, there will be people you feel you can help by being a good friend, or will bend over backwards to be there for, and those people may neglect you or even betray you. That is not a reflection on you, your worth, or what you have to offer. That is a reflection on something missing within them. Do not take it personally. People like that are emotional vampires and will suck away your happiness if you let yourself obsess about it. Let them go and be happier for it.

That you know love and respect are intrinsically connected. You cannot have love without respect. Everyone you love will at some point disappoint you, frustrate you, hurt your feelings or just get on your nerves. No one is exempt. When I am upset with your father, he shows how much he loves me be taking the time to listen thoughtfully and address his actions. Sometimes it's as simple as knowing I'm stressed out and taking you to the gym with him for an hour and a half so I have some quiet time or the chance to sleep in. Other times it takes concerted effort. But my happiness matters to him, and he makes that clear every day. Anyone can tell you they love you. They can even buy you presents, write you poetry, take you to extravagant dinners. But if the way you are treated without all the frills makes you feel like you are being judged, walking on eggshells, or causes you to question your value, there is no respect. That is not love. Love should reinforce and redeem you.

That you understand that you can't make someone care about something they don't care about. No matter how obvious it seems to you that something is important, vital, necessary, some people simply won't care. You can explain until you're blue in the face, or you can face facts: they don't WANT to care. Maybe it's laziness or maybe something just doesn't line up with their limited worldview or they way they would like to believe things are. It's easier for some people to write off or ignore problems than to engage in the difficult task of changing them.You can teach nothing to those who don't want to learn. Let it go. If they should care and they don't care, you're already looking at an irrational equation. No amount of searching for reasons and trying to understand why it doesn't compute will help. Just live by example and be the most beautiful and enlightening soul you can be. Those who are open to change will find you. Those who are not will fade out of your life.

That you keep your excitement and wonder. There are scary things out there. There is abundant sadness and tragedy. But this world is filled with so many incredible, inspiring, beautiful people who can remind you of all the good. Don't forget to watch the sunset, listen to the rain, smell pretty flowers, make snow angels, drink hot cocoa, belly laugh, dance with fireflies, feed the ducks, and listen to the stories of others. It will keep you young.

That you know you can be whoever you are and I will always love you and be proud of you. You tell me when you grow up you will be a superhero, and I want you to know I believe it with my whole heart. If you grow to find you don't fit the mold, know that you don't have to. Masculine, feminine, in love with men, women or nobody, skilled in math or terrible at basketball, interested in earning your Ph.D. or skipping college altogether to be an artist, green hair or no hair, it doesn't matter. What fulfills your heart and gives you purpose is what you should be doing, and I will support you in any and every way I can. Your happiness is your success. Be true to you. And don't ever back down out of fear of failure. You are capable of so much more than you will ever believe and just trying is evidence of courage and conviction. You are good enough. You are strong enough. You can do it.

My dearest one, through every trial I will be right there. When my times comes to leave you and this planet, know you will be my last thought and it will be one of the utmost pride and unconditional love. Trust me when I say you are my heart beating outside my chest. I love you more than I could ever express in words.

Love,

Your Mommy and #1 Fan

That's my girl.

Heroes and Heretics

One of the most frequent questions I face as a social justice researcher and activist for transgender (and blgq) populations is why I, "a cis-gender", binary-accepted woman would choose to focus on a population to which I do not belong. During the interview process of my Master's Thesis, I was asked a more important question by an interviewee: What makes me think I have any business researching the transgender population? I will attempt, ever so humbly, to answer that question now. 

As I have already mentioned, I am considered cis-gender. I identify as a woman, I am adequately feminine to be perceived by others as a woman, and I am physically housed in a female body. There is no way for someone who has my lived experience to truly understand what people who experience gender dysphoria must go through-- considered the heretical hybrids, the third or fourth gender, the chimera, the monster in society so stigmatized by a narrow social structure that both created and condemns them... But perhaps "understanding" is too presumptuous a word anyway, and ultimately not so important. Instead, perhaps, I relate to these incredible human beings on a more basic level and hope to recognize the integrity, the realities, and the humanity of the community.  

My fascination with transgender experience began at a young age, though it was at once different and normal to me. My mother frequented a nail artist who shared with her his entire journey to reconciling his body and lifestyle habitus to what he felt within, including his family's support and assistance in choosing a new name. My mother talked with me about it throughout, and I had been acquainted with him beforehand. And so, though I knew not all people went through these things, I did not perceive it to be any sort of abomination or oddity. It was simply another way to be. If anything, I thought it was neat. I definitely thought it was brave.

And yet as I grew older, I met and associated with more trans-identified people. Unfortunately, this made the berth between them and the individuals and groups less tolerant and compassionate than my own parents' example even more pronounced. I felt a sick, unsettling feeling growing in the pit of my stomach, something drawing me to this extremely marginalized group. I felt compelled, driven to become involved in their advocacy and to learn as much as I possibly could. 

It was not, however, a sense of pity nor of righteous superiority, nor some notion that I could or would (or even should!) be some kind of savior. Me? No. Quite the contrary; I felt as if in some way I simply knew at the very core of my being that I was one of them. Do not misunderstand; I have never felt I was wrongly bodied or wrongly labeled. That is too literal an interpretation of being "one of them." As I said before, there is no possible way for me to understand what this community experiences and how it affects them. What I mean is that I knew what it felt like to be what the more cruel and thoughtless of society might consider a monster. 

I am a woman, the "weaker sex." I suffer from anxiety and depression that can be at times debilitating. I am "emotional" and "overly sensitive." I am neurotic. I cope with OCD and ADHD. I am self-intolerant. I like wine, and at times in my life I have liked it (and other alcohol) too much-- perhaps even a dangerous amount. I struggle from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have been sexually assaulted twice in my life and lacked the courage to come forward until the statute of limitations had passed in both cases. I have been too frightened to pursue any meaningful recourse against people in my past who have threatened me, attacked me, stalked me and harassed me, making me feel as if I am weak and cowardly for keeping my head down. There have been times I have even been committedly suicidal. 

What the hell would people think of me if they knew? 

Every one of us is both creator and victim of our own societal machinations: we build what we must then live in, and in so living we keep rebuilding the same structures, sometimes to our detriment. We feel trapped by our own social strictures and limitations. And each of us have known fear. Terror. Shame. Stigma. Alienation. Isolation. We have each reached out desperately into the dark to find another human being with whom we could find real connection, understanding, acceptance. The most easily accepted among us has at some time felt self-disgust, a fear of being "found out." It is human. We all have hidden parts of ourselves, our skeletons in the closet. In the words of Shakespeare's Iago, "I am not what I am." Some of us wear our stigma in ways that the entire world can see, and though difficult and painful, there is at least some relief in the lack of ability to make such a choice. Those individuals must be brave or die. It does not make that stigma any easier to bear. But the rest of us harbor our darkness, our other halves, our hybridity in the shadows. We wear our scarlet letters, some visible, and some known only because of the burning of the insignia on our chests. We fear that others will know, will see, what we hope to hide. Even those we love the most become the carriers of the heaviest, most detrimental weapons against us-- for if they saw what we were, would their love persist? Would they forsake us as Frankenstein did his own labor of love? I know I personally have borne witness to some of the darkest moments of shame and disgrace in the lives of those I am committed to in love and friendship... And I have loved them nonetheless. Still, for such treacheries in my own life, I have whipped proverbial scars onto my own back. The truth is, we have merely imagined ourselves into the monsters we fear. 

It is inescapable. We can't remove our own identities. We cannot change who we are in our souls or wash our hands of who we have become and how. And our flaws, faults, our socially perceived deviance and differences so greatly outnumber our successes and shared celebrations, just as the tragedies of the world outweigh the glorious triumphs. But that is what makes such achievements so valuable, and in essence, what makes each of us human. We are all monsters, but only in our minds. In our hearts, I am not convinced we are monsters at all. We are just fighting battles within us and without us, constantly, in our hopes to find that safe place, that utopia, or perhaps just that special other who can see us stripped of all our costumes and presumptions and, naked to whatever secrets we despise, who will love us for every flawed beating of our hearts. 

And in that way, I am one of them-- one of the chimeras, the hybrids, the monsters, the heretics. I know I am one of them, because am a human being. We all are. The only real monsters are those who let their own self-hatred consume them and project it onto others for living honestly and courageously. And I cannot and will not rest until all human beings are respected and loved and valued for who they are and the amazing things they contribute to this brave new world. Until such a day arrives, I will give my heart and soul and any resources I may to support those voices being heard in hopes such a revolution may occur. That someday, people will not be so alone as I have felt in my own life through so many experiences. That someday, we will realize how much more we have in common than we have differences. That our secrets, our hidden selves, are not BAD. They are a critical element to creating the whole people we are and will be.

We are the heroes of our stories, not the victims. We can and will overcome. One and all. Someday.

And that's not even to mention how effin' cool my trans-identified friends are.

Epitaph for a Normal Life

Hi. I'm Ariel. Wife, mother of a toddler, teacher, disillusioned academic, social justice activist and general ball of quirks. I'm here to tell you a story.

I do stuff. Lots of stuff. All the stuff.

Okay, not just A story. Lots of them. The first is how I got here to begin with.

I have played many roles in my life. I've been a teacher, social worker, PR/development specialist, curriculum writer, professional student, artist, singer-songwriter, actress, dancer, and mother among others. For quite awhile it seemed, the most prominent role was pursuing my doctorate in sociology. About a year ago, I made an extremely difficult decision for my life: to leave academia only 12 hours and a dissertation away from completion. The coursework was never the problem. In fact, I met with a lot of success in publishing and presenting at prestigious conferences. During that time, though, I was dealing with severe postpartum depression that often left me hysterical and sobbing behind closed doors. I had a terrible time coping feeling I would never be good enough or live up to the beautiful creature my daughter was. In addition, significant harassment and malicious gossip and deception intended to destroy my reputation left my health in decline and my stress, anxiety and depression through the roof. I sought help from the school, even provided police reports and other evidence, and I received no help. I couldn't keep weight on. I was heavily medicated with anti-anxiety, anti-depression and sleep-aid treatments. I had developed an auto-immune disorder from the stress level which led to an Addisonian Crisis. My adrenal glands literally shut down one day following a panic attack. I fortunately made it to the ER before it was fatal, but it was clear something had to change. A few letters after my name were not worth my life.  

And so I walked away at the end of the Spring semester, severing nearly all ties to the department and school. The relief was palpable. Within a month of my exodus, I received a clean bill of health. By a few months later, I was completely off of anti-anxiety/depression medications.

But where would I go from there? Everything I had planned just... poof!

I work as a sociology instructor for a university as an adjunct. This is both a great job (I adore my boss and I love to teach and I can do it from the comfort of home through distance learning) and an awful job (I can't teach over a certain number of classes per university so my income is limited, pay is low for the amount of work, there are no benefits nor job security semester to semester). Mostly I love it in spite of the negatives, but I felt compelled to find full time work upon leaving school. Adjuncting rarely affords the opportunity for a living wage. But I wasn't going to find anything in the dead-end town I live in, and we lived too far to commute realistically with a three-year-old child. I would never see her if I did. Basically, full time work would enable my family to move elsewhere. Finally. Sometimes you've just been somewhere too long.

So what does a person so close to a Ph.D. in sociology but little other practical experience in any one field... do?

I'm your huckleberry. That's... Wait. What's my game?

Well, as I mentioned before I've worn many hats. Over the course of the past year, I submitted over 250 applications for full-time employment ranging from copywriting/editing to teaching to PR/marketing to research/analytics. Grueling. And of those 250+ applications, I have interviewed for four. FOUR. The first offered me a position... that was supposed to be unpaid for at least a year. Not knowing that when I started, I got to about a month in without any contract signed or pay negotiated before I told them to consider it a freebie and keep looking. Then I interviewed with a Fortune 100 technology company to lead a research and analytics team there. I made it to the final interview/presentation, after which they told me I did an exceptional job, they were "blown away," but I had "more important things to do" than research for their company, so they basically turned me down out right. A bit disheartened, a few months later I was contacted about a PR/marketing position for a nationally established chain of chiropractic offices. I ended up being the only finalist. In the final interview with corporate, however, it became clear the doctor of the practice where the position was advertised had not cleared the job description with corporate. I was offered a position: a part-time chiropractic assistant. Next please.

And then there was THE posting. My dream job. An established and well-reputed community college in the community I grew up in was hiring for a full time instructor in sociology. The pay was great, the location was perfect, and all I really wanted to do was teach. I was among four individuals selected for interview. I nailed the teaching demonstration. I received excellent feedback during the interview with the search committee. My 30 minute interview with the Dean at the end of a Friday workday ran almost an hour and a half, and he was enthusiastic the entire time. I received the call I was selected as a finalist and was to meet with the President and Vice President. Both were lovely people, and we seemed to get along swimmingly. The remaining finalists interviewed that week. The following Wednesday, I got the word: they offered the position to someone else.

I can't put into words how devastated I felt. Over 250 applications. Only four interviews. So close to the job I had wanted, the one that led me to pursue graduate school in the first place. The chance to move, to get a fresh start and new perspectives... Dashed.

But then something kind of amazing happened. My husband (who might very well be a saint, I'm not sure) asked what would happen if we moved anyway.

Huh?

And that's when it hit me. Living here was not doing me any favors. We were struggling to make it on two incomes when mine was so limited. We were far from most of our friends and family, and the alienation and isolation had become more evident over the past year. Opportunities in the area are completely nil. And for those 250+ applications that were immediately filed under "garbage," how many might have been different if I had the opportunity, the mobility to approach face to face? To break the rules and the mold and show them in person what I had to offer? With a three-year-old and no money for additional childcare, those chances were limited. Until my daughter hit Kindergarten, they would likely continue to be.

So I went back to advice I had been given by my mother, my father, friends, colleagues, professors, and writers as far back as elementary school. Write. Just write. Forget about full time work. Move to a place where you can be surrounded by friends and family, where you have a fresh start and a chance for new adventures. And just tell the stories as they come.

And that was that. We are in the process of getting our house ready to sell, looking for another, and ready for whatever comes next. I hope you'll join me.

"There's no such thing as a normal life, Wyatt. There's just life. Now get on with it." -Doc Holliday, Tombstone