A Painful Lesson

6^th grade, 1979

I moved out of the path of an 8th-grade cheerleader. She was one of the richest girls in school, pretty and built (for being an 8^th grader) and knew it, and I admired her for her beauty and disliked her for it at the same time. She walked arrogantly down the hallway, right down the middle like a Coast Guard cutter slicing through the sea. The hallway was crowded, and I had to move back to the right side. The middle school hallways always seemed to follow the same sort of rules as the roads in town did. Traffic stayed to the right, unless you were important, or at least felt that you were. 

The boy’s restroom sign came into view, and honestly, none too soon, as I had needed to use the restroom all the way through math. I had several minutes before my next class, which was right down the hall. I veered into the restroom and headed toward a urinal.

Without warning, there was a hard blow on my back, propelling me into a wall, one of those cinder block wall types. I rebounded like a basketball and was grabbed and spun around. He pushed me against the wall and gripped me by the front of the neck. I was a small kid, one of the youngest in my 6th-grade class, short and thin. The boy facing me was much larger, an 8th-grade football player, and naturally, because these sorts of things never involve one boy, he had three of his friends with him, to cheer him on. He was much larger than me and crazy strong, and I remember thinking how big his arms were.  He was wearing a black and white school shirt. Northwood Panthers. I didn’t recall his name, though I recognized him, and oddly, my brain locked onto trying to recall his name. Instinctively, I pulled my books tighter against my chest, close to my body. I remember that he smelled like sweat.

He said something that I didn’t hear because I was still working on figuring out his name. Then he grabbed my books out of my arms and threw them into the trash can. Spinning around, he grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and demanded to know what “a fag like me was doing in the boy’s bathroom”. I protested that I wasn’t a fag, and he demanded to know why I carry my books like a girl. You might recall that middle school kids will seize on any little thing to belittle someone else, and thus elevate their own status. Meanwhile, all boys knew that being labeled a “fag” (homosexual) was essentially the kiss of death.

Suddenly, I was confronted with what I hadn’t ever realized. I typically carried my books in my arm, against my chest, just like that aforementioned cheerleader did. Like girls all over school did. There was an unwritten rule, you see, that boys carried their books down at their side, and girls carried their books against their chest, tilting them out as if they had breasts, trying to look like the high school girls did. So now I’m being confronted by this football player, who is literally yelling at me, and all my brain can do now is wonder why in the world I was carrying my books like that, and why it mattered at all. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized, believe it or not, that I carried my books like that. I just carried them how it felt comfortable to me. But that was the wrong way to do it. Right? So, I’m now focusing on the way, and have forgotten the search for his name.

I was standing there, feeling extremely vulnerable, for some reason folding my arms across my chest. I had never felt like that in my life. He demanded to know what I was doing in the “men’s room”. Now they were men, notice. Boys a moment ago, men now.

Though I’m sure it made him feel manly, the punch to the stomach that followed wasn’t exactly a blessing, in my viewpoint. Then, punched again, I was on the floor, being punched and kicked. One. Then another kick, then a third, really hard kick, that one from another boy. One kick to the stomach, one to the side, one to the small of the back. Lots of punches. Chest, stomach, side, back, thigh. None of the blows fell on my face or arms, but only in places that wouldn’t leave marks. If I tried to cover an area, they simply shifted to a different area. I couldn’t catch my breath. Then the obligatory laughter, and one of them spit on me. I remember the feel of it, wet and disgusting, on the side of my neck. They discussed for a moment whether they should pee on me. Then, of course, the obligatory threat to never return to the men’s room, and they left.

I was in a lot of pain. I was crying at this point. Shocked. Horrified. Very, very afraid. The floor was cold. My throat hurt from where he had gripped it. My head hurt from striking the floor. My stomach, site of multiple punches, and a kick, hurt. I finally got my books out of the trash can, an act that disgusted me, because I really have never liked unsanitary areas. That’s an understatement. I went into a stall, and sat down on a toilet seat lid, but that didn’t help at all. There were no stall doors, and I was crying and shaking in the boy’s room. I had to get out of there.

 I worked desperately to stop crying, then grabbed some paper towels, and washed my face and neck. I looked in the mirror, had a realization that my eyes were red and my cheeks blotchy, and then was ashamed that I cared how my face looked.  I finally went to class, extremely late, of course. The teacher, sending me to the principal’s office for being late, assumed that my lateness was why I was upset. There, I got the “I’m disappointed in you, I thought you were a good kid” lecture, and was sent back to class. I have no idea, to this day, why I never told. The first person I ever told was my wife, 38 years later.

When I left school that day, the same boys were outside, just finishing destroying my bicycle. I unbent things as best I could, and rode home. There, my extremely conservative parents questioned me about my bicycle, announcing when I tried to explain (leaving out the bathroom incident, mind you) that there was no reason for other boys to damage my bicycle. That, naturally, comforted me not at all. Since there was no way I could tell them what happened, I was punished for lying, because I had said I didn’t do the damage, but wouldn’t give an alternate explanation. Then, I was punished for not taking care of my bicycle.

Oddly, some of the girls were nicer to me after all this happened. I didn’t know why, but I was glad someone was nice to me. I saw the boys many times, of course, after that day. They always made a point of laughing or flipping me off. Otherwise, they left me alone, probably deciding they had made their point. But I was careful, after that. I was careful when entering restrooms.  I watched outside for a minute or so, and looked carefully inside before fully entering. If someone was there, I left. If the restroom was unoccupied, I finished quickly, leaving as fast as humanly possible. I was careful how I carried my books too, making sure they were in my hand, down at my side, because that’s how the boys carried their books. I was a boy. So, do it right. Or else.

Breakfast at Bob Evans

2018

This is part three of the trilogy discussing how a church responded to transgender people. I recommend reading the first two parts, for clarity.

you can find part 1 here: https://highheelsandankleboots.blogspot.com/2018/07/ok-e-mail-from-transgender-person.html

You can find part 2 here: https://highheelsandankleboots.blogspot.com/2018/08/church-bylaws.html

You're Not Having...

As previously discussed, my wife and I had left the church we were attending. The Senior Pastor there still had no idea why, and he and his family were vocal about wanting us to return. My wife and I decided that the best thing to do was to sit down and talk with him, and tell him bluntly why we left.

We met at a local Bob Evans restaurant, for breakfast. There, we small talked, and wasted time, and ate, until it got to the point that we couldn't ignore the elephant in the room any longer. So, I took a lot of deep breaths, and with a shaky voice, told the Senior Pastor why we had left his church.

He didn't act surprised, but he had to have been. I doubt he had any inkling of the situation, previously. From the moment the words "I'm transgender" left my mouth, he never again said he wanted us to return. Instead, at the end of our talk, he agreed that it was best that we go.

Then he looked at me and asked something I still can't believe he actually said. "You're not having sex with men, are you?" he asked. 'Because if you do, that's it for you."

Let me ask you a question, dear reader. How exactly is that any of his business? One of the things trans people always seem to get are questions about their genitals and about their sex life. Neither are okay. I don't ask you, and that's for a reason. It's none of my business.

I'm not going to do that

He then asked me what it took to help people like me feel more welcome. I told him that it'd be nice for people to have a place to pee. He said "We've got that now", a reference to the redesignated bathroom that they only changed because insurance had told them to. I told him that people look for churches with groups that aren't gendered. In other words, churches that have activities and Bible studies, not "men's Bible study" and "women's golf outings". He indicated that this wasn't likely to be put into place. That's when I told him it might be best to take "All are welcome here" off of the church sign, because I for sure hadn't felt welcome, and there were some other who hadn't as well. You see, in the last two years, some young people who were lesbians or bisexual had left, totaling 9 people that I knew of, including my family. I explained to him that he had other trans people in the church, and a couple of lesbians, a few porn addicts, etc.

The next thing he mentioned was in response to my statements about the attitudes of church leadership. He was concerned, but not like you'd think. He wasn't thinking of changing the attitude of church leadership. Rather, he asked me if when another person like me visited the church, would they be able to pick up on the church's attitude, or would it be hidden well enough? It's possible, he said, that I only knew about their attitude because I had been in leadership?

I explained that the right thing to do was for him to stand up on Sunday and bluntly confront the church's prevailing attitude. He said he wasn't going to do that, and the conversation broke up a few minutes later. Off we went.

I honestly don't know why I was even upset. I hadn't expected anything, in particular, to come from the talk. Yet, I was disappointed. But you know what? Walking away was the best thing we could have done.

Pronouns Make Me Cry

2018

She Called Me "She"

Last night, for the first time ever, my awesome wife referred to me as "her" and "she" in conversation. It might not be the first time she did it, but it is the first time I heard her do it.

Now, this conversation wasn't something that is going to make headlines. It wasn't with anyone who is likely to repeat the conversation with someone else.  To be honest, the conversation was with our golden retriever. I was in the kitchen, and heard my partner ask the dog "Where did she go?? That was followed by the sound of a tail thumping on something. "Go get her!" The dog, who loves to play "go get them" games, cam running to look for me.

When You're Transgender, Pronouns really Do Matter

It's silly. It's no massive, groundbreaking thing. But it brought tears to the corners of my eyes. She. Her. Pronouns really do matter. I hadn't realized how very much they do until that moment.

Church Bylaws

2017

At this point, if you haven’t read the story about the e-mail from the Transgender person, it would be best to get that background, as it will lend clarity to this vignette. You can find it here: E-mail from a Transgender Person

I'm the brunette, transgender wife. 

I was the Chair of the Church Board of Trustees. We attended an extremely conservative church, which sometimes caused some issues for my wife and I, regarding church teachings. But, honestly, though there were some things that got to us, we had been able to shrug it off. It’s amazing what you can shrug off in the name of normalcy. 

As the chair of the Trustees, I was vested with a lot of authority and was the number 2 person in authority in the church, behind the Senior Pastor. Mind you, despite the previous event with the e-mails, the church had taken no official position regarding transgender people.

Things were going well. We lived our lives, but the people at church had no idea of the truth about me, which frankly frequently caused me to feel that I was being dishonest. Overall, things were going decently. But since life is life, all good things must come to an end. Like many churches, how things are done in that church was guided by bylaws. The Senior Pastor had been wanting to make some changes, in language and punctuation. So, a committee was formed to consider the changes.

One day, the Senior Pastor sent out an e-mail to all of the church leadership, detailing the decision of the bylaws committee adding a few paragraphs to the church bylaws. The text of the paragraphs was:

We believe that the term “marriage” has only one meaning and that is marriage sanctioned by God which joins one man and one woman in a single, exclusive union as delineated in Scripture. We believe that God intends sexual intimacy to occur between a man and a woman who are married to each other. We believe God has commanded that no intimate sexual activity engage in outside of a marriage between a man and a woman. 

We believe that any form of sexual immorality, such as adultery, fornication, homosexuality, bisexual conduct, bestiality, incest, pornography or any attempt to change one’s sex or disagreement with one’s biological sex, is sinful and an offensive to God.

We believe that to preserve the function and integrity of the church as the local Body of Christ, and to provide a biblical role model to the church attendees and the community, it is imperative that all persons employed by the church in any capacity, or who serve as volunteers, should abide by and agree to this Statement of Marriage and Sexuality and conduct themselves accordingly.

As you might imagine, this presented me with multiple quandaries. First, because I am a transgender person, this would mean that I not only could not ethically continue in my current position, nor any other position, but that I also couldn’t serve in any capacity whatsoever, not even as a volunteer.

Additionally, the statement makes it clear that the church’s new position would be that I was considered to be sinful, and an offense to God, simply because of who I am as a person.

Also, I was driven more than a little nuts by the typos in what is supposed to be a legal document. But that’s another story.

Lastly, I don’t find in scripture the things the statement says are in scripture.

I was greatly distressed upon reading this statement, and what made it even worse was the overwhelming support from the entirety of church leadership for the inclusion of the statement. Only one other person voiced any dissent.

I engaged in a very logical, tense, but not heated discussion with the Senior Pastor, which included numerous e-mails, telephone calls, and face-to-face conversations with him. I actually was eventually able to persuade him that including the statement was morally reprehensible, and he then persuaded the remainder of the bylaws committee. The statement was NOT included in the new bylaws!

But that didn’t change the fact that I had seen the heart of the members of the church leadership team. I had been given a very rude awakening, and I no longer felt comfortable there. I now knew what was going to happen when, eventually, they found out the truth about me.

My wife and I talked at length about all this, and we spoke repeatedly with our therapist. The final decision was honestly life-altering. I have now resigned as Chair of the Board of Trustees, and from the board itself. We have withdrawn as backup Sunday School teachers and resigned from the fellowship committee, which plans church meals, etc. We also resigned from the church's community outreach program that we had been in charge of. Over the last few months, we have attended several other churches, and that will continue, as we search for a church that will not condemn me.

This story is wrapped up in this writing, Breakfast at Bob Evans