Bathroom Privilege


Zinnia Jones is a trans-advocate extraordinaire. I appreciate the message here: “Do not harrass me while I need to pee.” The mere presence of a transperson is not “harassing,” just like if someone was Muslim or Jewish, or Puerto Rican.
White privilege needs to grow the fuck up.


Marriage of Society

So today was a historical event for queer rights in California. You can now (after the official word has been handed down) get married to your partner.
Did this invalidate heterosexual marriages already existing?
Did it make a mockery of standing heterosexual marriages?
No, that had been happening since divorce, adultery, and domestic violence has been around.
“It wasn’t Adam and Steve…” says some who are quoting scripture, when in fact they ignore the infamous story about removing body parts from another man to grow a human being.
That is preposterous! (Gen 2:22)


Fathers’ Day Dreams

So today is Father’s Day to some,
to others its Fathers’ Day.

Some of us had a try without knowing what we were doing,
others were nothing but a surrogate for some other person-in full or lacking capacity.

I don’t consider myself to have a father, its more like the story of Aphrodite at times:

“In the most famous version of her myth, her birth was the consequence of a castration: Cronus severed Uranus’ genitals and threw them behind him into the sea. The foam from his genitals gave rise to Aphrodite (hence her name, meaning “foam-arisen”), while the Erinyes (furies) emerged from the drops of his blood.Hesiod states that the genitals “were carried over the sea a long time, and white foam arose from the immortal flesh; with it a girl grew.” The girl, Aphrodite, floated ashore on a scallop shell.”
(Excerpt from

There was nothing positive as my life started when I lived next door to him. Happily I have learned not to expose myself to venom, hate, and such. But sometimes it spills from me as though hemorrhaging or collaterally. The hate does make ones skin thicker and thus will ooze from pores of relationships with partners and one’s own children.

My children do not know me and its sometimes it is remiss but that’s my burden and as such there is not any regret for what I could not control.

Amanda Peet once said of child-rearing in a magazine artice: “Parenting is a lot like when the oxygen masks drop in an airplane: you cannot help anyone until you fix your own situation.” (paraphrased)


The Dividing Line of Feminism and Expression

I’m conscious, no doubt. Most of the world’s ration and reason anymore hurt my brain.

This doesn’t “interfere” with my daily existence as much as it enhances it. Its problematic at times because the world, and my world have many layers. I did live the first 35 years fooling others to believe I was a man (but never fooled myself).


“Looking like I did, I always thought I was smart and not good looking. I had never felt this outside looked like my inner self-she stayed hidden for 8 more years after this photo.”

Picket fence, college, military…I had some typical as well as high-risk career choices that were considerably masculine. I spent time convincing myself more than other people and thus: being a male in all outward appearances and social roles- WERE simply a stage I went through before embracing my true self. But transitioning back east meant I was surrounded by an automobile to-and-from work, school, home. You don’t socially interact with anyone in a car, basically.


“People would kill to have a body like mine, or just kill me?”
Statistically, trans people survive suicide and are faced with a higher homicide rate-rarely killed by women.

Expressing my female self isn’t without daily scrutiny from men and women alike: a man can be butt-ugly but as long as he is powerful/rich/physically strong he is pedestalled and embraced for doing what success was defined to mean; for the woman it means you are judged based on your hair/makeup/clothing/fashion sense and not other accolades.

Women rarely get left alone when it comes to the leering and judging eyes of the world. Sure, age sometimes brings relief, but then you are seen as someone’s “mother” rather than a successful mature woman. Shit, this goes to show that transitioning from male to female is not a CHOICE!! One might argue that transitioning from female to male would be a choice based on no longer being scrutinized on a daily basis of ones looks, but that is not the case. Transgender is not a choice for anyone.

Some feel that being born as I was and being attracted to women, wearing pants, etc. are considered appropriate.

So how much breasts/cleavage do you show to express what you feel you want to, and how much is caving to “what a woman should behave as?”

The pitfall of someone balancing expression: “I don’t feel like wearing makeup nor shaving my legs.” negatively traverses my female expression. You could say that I am hypersensitive to the expressions of gender, having lived/worked/dated/stared/objectified as both. 

Did I mention that I know what runs through a man’s brain? No? Well I didn’t. I will say that I know what CAN run through a man’s brain. I was also raised around the most misogynistic/pro rape men on the planet. I knew pretty early that I was neither “them” nor “a man.”

I will admit that I cling to a few things out of comfort due to the basic fact that I wasn’t born without a vagina, nor plentiful mammary glands (breasts).

Maybe I don’t want to go to a place further outside my own comfort zone.
Maybe I don’t want to leave the impression on you of what I look like without makeup because maybe you won’t invest getting to know me or you are the type of person who doesn’t get past anything.
Maybe I like some to show some sexy legs because I literally have bled for my transition. I shouldn’t have to justify anything in what I choose to express, but in living my life, I am just.

I think you can be a femme pro feminist, and even a transsexual feminist. I also think that it really shouldn’t matter what someone’s outsides look as quoted by me:

Associated Press November 2010

Associated Press November 2010

“This girl in front of me, whether she is wearing pants or a dress, shouldn’t make a difference.” Associated Press November 2010


A tale of 2 letters.

The first letter is one TO my older biological sister.
She had remained persistent about randomly communicating rants about her no-good husband and eldest daughter who is married to someone who is either in or out of jail.
Not once has a “How are you doing?” “How can I help?” Or what I would have preferred from a sibling (Ahem) someone to scream at the top of their lungs at the bastard who attacked me, biological brother who was not my choice for what genetic material he encompasses.So here is the dialog.

Dear Charlotte,

What am I going to say in an email that texting doesn’t allow me to do?

Here goes….

  Since having come out as a transgender woman, I have felt a lack of support from you. I am really indifferent to having you participate in my life because of this. Since the time when Brett attacked me, the rest of my world has continued to evolve. At that time I really needed open support and care – basically an ally. I did not find that in you.At a time when I was most vulnerable, that hurt me deeply.Moving away from Arkansas, I have at least been able to shed geographically the physical proximity of what was most harmful to me. Eventually I have found nurturing, positive reinforcement of my beliefs and principles in open minded friends.

I wish I could have found it in you.

I am not comfortable with being a person who just is someone to talk to because you need to vent about your life. Doesn’t anything good ever happen to you? Has nothing positive ever happened you can talk tome about? I feel like you are not openly supportive of me to our family and the world and that upsets me.

I have adopted an attitude traditionally held by survivors of the Shoah: “Never again!” That means I do not perpetuate things that are ill or are toxic to me. I don’t have to tolerate anything I don’t want to. Much of the Jewish Holocaust was carried out because neighbors didn’t question, nor speak out, or help when their neighbors and friends were being hauled away to the camps.I am not responsible for for Brett beating me. I don’t speak to Larry either because he was never supportive of anything long before my transition. He is where Brett’s attitude originates from. You openly support Brett.So that’s why I really question even talking to you.

I get to edit my life and keep the all good stuff. Loving supportive people that ask for help, offer a kind ear, nurture a wound or two. I get whatever time I am allotted to enjoy in my life. I would love you to be a openly supportive and nurturing part of my life but it doesn’t seem like you want that.


By keeping all the good stuff, I mean I don’t share my loves with those who do not love and have a basic ignorance for the attacker/attackee retationship.

It is 5 years since the attack. No pologies, no effort.

Her reply:

Hmmm. I’m sorry you feel I haven’t been supportive of your transformation. I’m not quite sure what you mean about not being supportive. I have only expressed concerns about you making this permanent before you are really ready and that’s what friends do. They don’t blow your dress in the air, they give you honesty and caring. And they don’t run off without a good-bye.

As far as Brett goes, I have talked to him about that situation and I believe him to be sorry(1) for the way he went about handling things. I have heard it from him that he wished he could go back and do that over. People tend to revert to their primitive brain when they are under stress(2). He loved you as his brother for many years – scaring off bullies, etc. I’m sorry you aren’t able to find forgiveness and understanding to those you feel have wronged you. That’s too bad. Because it can bring alot of peace to your life, without turning to people that only provide “lip service”. Sibling creed: Love hard, fight hard(3).

Now for Dad. We talked the other day about the situation with you. He said he loves you “my son, my daughter”, whatever you want to be. He’s sorry he couldn’t say it(1). But I say go ahead and give him the “old dog, new tricks” card. Dad needed time to grow up too.

You have had time to change things in your life. You didn’t just jump put of bed one day and get plastic surgery done and all the other stuff that this kind of thing entails. Your family has called you son and brother, since the day you were born and it takes a while to make that switch. And if you can’t have patience with your family, it’s a good thing you moved instead of allowing them time to get used to the idea. Its also true you can make up your own story, but my brother, B(identity), is part of your story, whether you want to acknowledge he ever existed, that’s up to you. Hell, John’s nephew was called “Graham” for years and decided to go by “Dylan” – I still call him Graham from time to time, but for most of his life, that’s what he went by. That’s just a fact. He doesn’t get offended by it. He knows who he is. His “new” friends call him Dylan because that’s all they have known him to be. He’s still “Graham Dylan” to me. I really don’t see him often enough to get used to calling him “Dylan”. He will probably live with my slipping up the once every couple years when I see him. His wife is a pediatrician in Tennessee. I think he’ll be okay.

And btw, I try to share good things with you. You are too busy or too bitter to correspond so that’s why you don’t hear as much of that from me. Perhaps you might think of the conversations we have had…the only “good” thing I’ve heard from you is about your tattoo status. It’s always about you. Always. When I start to talk, you have to go. And you don’t have NEAR the responsibilities that I have. Not to your children or anyone else. But God loves me. He made me. And so do my kids +1(4).

I love my brother B(identity) and I love you too. Take it or leave it.


“You know they are apologetic because they don’t speak, right?” Bite me.

2 That shithead said the entire time saying “I love you” while he was beating and choking me. His “primitive brain under stress” was him pulling me out of my house by my hair.

“Love hard, fight hard” I owe a few people a little something according to this thinking.

Its important that your god love you so that your behavior is just.

(identity) is censored and really something that people new get hung up on what is past-more than anyone knows this is me.

Charlotte’s correspondence in the last 5 years has been such great things as “Hey, I think Lady Gaga has her own disco stick” “You know, she’s a man, right?”

Trans people always seem to have family that miss out the fact that they have known someone the longest, you saw something hidden coming.

I am allowed  to “not having patience” with people who have either attacked me or turned their backs on me when I needed it as I was renting from the token Shithead and suddenly had to move. Nobody offered camping on their 5+ acres of land. I was given $20 and a list of homeless shelters from my biological mother. I was given no quarter, no kindness, no solace.

So anyone will understand why there were no “goodbyes.”

I delete you from participating in my life.If that’s the love you offer blood relatives, then my debt is paid-and we are not relatives.



The Ides of March is my 5 year birthday!

5 years! I am now a “5 year-old girl” for the most part.

My born date was originally around March 15th (I later made it my official one.) It was approximately 6 months after I had moved back to where my biological family lived. October 2007, I had told myself in clear understanding: “6 months from now, I will either be content being a part-time girl, banish it completely, or live life completely as the girl I have always been.”

5 years? Seems like a short time? I am 41 now. It is now 4 1/2 years past the day that bastard that tried to kill me. By bastard, I mean my biological older brother (taller and bigger if we must paint the picture properly). He attacked me and proceeded to beat and choke me back to being his brother. Fortunately, in spite of the 4 onlooking people (niece, sister-in-law, nephews) I called the police myself with one hand. I keep that beautiful red Motorola Razor to this day because it helped save my life. I fought back during the struggle as much as I could. His taunting and repeating words of “I love you.” were very disarming, even when mixed in with “You’re my brother…you’re not a guitarist, you’re a bass player….don’t cut your dick off…”

Court process was long, tiresome, and crazy. I persisted and will share my plea hearing and trial dismissal in a future blog.

In the last 5 years, I have survived:
Suicidal roommates.
Being taken advantage of financially because of desperation.
Dating both men and women who revealed to be less that respectable to my person.
Living in my 1986 Camaro (2009) and continuing to show up to work ready and on time.
Living in a homeless shelter with people coming down of hard drugs and violent fits.
Being grabbed when I first moved into San Francisco about 5 times in 6 months (2010).
Numerous allergies to medicines and foods.
Being rejected by more biological family than being openly supported by.
Being embraced by wonderful people that amaze me with their love and friendship.

“If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger!” Right? No, not exactly.

I am in fact stronger because I surpassed all the weak, malicious, crazy people. I “left the farm” for the big city and much better life. I have a bullshit filter that goes off pretty early or I simply don’t have much interaction with people so that time itself will weed the weak away from my life.

My life might be a little quiet and lacking some continuity because of my resistance to their unkindness (to say the least), but I love myself. I love the people who show up in my life every day.
I love the people who have done nothing but show love towards me.

So, happy birthday little 5 year-old inside me. You’ve earned it!


Gender Roles: Fluid or Static

Recently, my partner and I had made things “officiale” in our dating adventure, as partners and as a couple. As such, we did not make it “traditionale” nor could ever do such. Her being a genetic woman, and Me being transgender/transsexual is another aspect to the mix, each with dual roles at times.

In spite of being horribly repressed and knowing I was a girl from my earliest memories, I was still socialized as a boy, and groomed as the “second son” or “auxiliary back-up plan for carrying on the family name” upbringing. Unlike my father and older (ahem) brother, I was sympathetic, empathetic, and kind towards women. They (women) were not property, slaves, nor punching bags.

What I do know now compared to pre-boy-puberty is that:
My relationship with Grace, my 3rd grade girlfriend from Barrie Elementary School in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, was not about controlling the other person. Nor was it ever a heated, hormone-driven, sex-goal relationship. We climbed trees, kissed, talked, played. She had a cool short haircut too.

As the “not so important boy-child” of the house, I got to freely learn cooking and sewing skills. I got to spend more time in the garden. I learned how to raise a few chickens for eggs. But I also had been conditioned to violence of men. Not that violence was acceptable, but that it was simply present.

 My lessons of how boys act around girls were largely taught by television and anyone who wasn’t related by blood. I am kind, sincere, protective, accommodating, thoughtful…I wasn’t always the way I am now. Even while repressing my girl-self, I was initially all these to everyone that I was in a relationship with…there were a lot of “high-maintenance” women in my life to make the one inside me go away. It obviously didn’t work, but that’s another story.

Her and I flow and ebb with “guardian/warrior” and “princess/waif” constantly and continuously. She cooks amazing meals; brings flowers that make me melt; and can take charge of any situation. I bombard her with cards, cuddles, and flowers; meals fit for royalty; and I sleep lightly with a watchful eye and ear to our surroundings. I’d happily flail myself between danger and her when needed.

I am still an odd duck. My curves and my body speak of my womanity, also does my grace, charm, and candor.. Ah, but my intimate social behavior towards a partner speaks of chivalry.

So I act like a boy at times.
So sue me!