Receiving the Ninth Step

I received a text message out of the clear blue this morning. I cried even as my heart lifted with joy. My young friend Roy (of course Roy is a pseudonym) is safe. And happy. And 444 days sober.

Roy wrote to us in honor of the ninth step of the principles of AA – making amends. “I realize that when things went south for me, I was unable to show up as your friend. I recognize that it must’ve been hurtful and upsetting to see me vanish like that, without a word and without proper thanks for the time you spent as my mentor, or for the beautiful meals I shared in your home.”

Hurtful? Upsetting? No. Neither of those is the way I would describe how we felt. We were worried about Roy. We feared he was dead, or homeless, lying in a gutter somewhere, unable to help himself.

I responded to Roy immediately, telling him how happy we were to hear from him, and that we had worried about him as parents would their son.

As a therapist, I worked with many clients who were either in recovery, or embarked on a recovery program shortly after we started working together. However, it’s one thing to support a client who is making amends. It’s another thing altogether to be a worried friend, waiting to hear.

To those of you reading this who are in recovery, please know this: making amends has a deeper meaning to those you reach out to than your apology for past actions. Reaching out means to us an opportunity to reestablish relationship. And, it allows us the peace of mind of knowing that you are safe. You are alive. You mattered to us before you got into recovery; you matter to us still.

The honest undertaking of the ninth step means that your peace of mind, your centeredness, does not depend on our reaction to your reaching out. You are doing this on your own behalf, not to please someone else. I just wanted you to know.

Still needed after all these years

This morning I listened to a voicemail on the Portland PFLAG phone line. The caller was a woman in tears, most distressed at having realized she is a lesbian. “This morning” is June 6, 2019. I make note of the date because this distressed phone call seems more like a reaction from decades ago.

The Portland Pride parade is a week away. At PFLAG, we are having back-and-forth email exchanges about who is staffing the booth when, do we have enough PFLAG Loves Me stickers to lovingly sticker every person who attends the parade and festival? I also sing in the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus. Every year, I face the dilemma – which contingent do I parade with?

Long lost in my history is the visceral memory of when this dilemma did not exist. There were no contingents, just a general mass of people marching in the street with signs seeking visibility, social safety, and some level of legal protection. This parade was not yet a parade, with joyful spectators lining the streets. It was a protest march, unpublicized and taking the general public unaware every year.

Had this woman called for support at that time, pretty much anyone would have understood the angst she was going through. Coming out and coming to feel okay about your identity was a difficult process at a time when there were no positive mainstream representations of any form of acronym-based identity.

And – does that mean it isn’t difficult today? This voicemail of June 6, 2019 says that it is. As a therapist, I understand that the pace of change is slowest at the family level. We will have equal protection laws on the books long before we can safely say that most families are completely fine when someone comes out with an acronym-based identity. Many families are more fine than they used to be, and  people are coming out at increasingly younger ages, but there is still a long way to go before we can say acronym-based identities are just as valid within US society as straight or cisgender identities.

Nevertheless, there is much to celebrate, and this is the focus of Pride in this day and age. With the upbeat tone of the Parade and the largely-positive media coverage, it can be easy to miss the fact that there are still people who need a great deal of support when they come out.

If this woman comes to Pride and sees nothing but smiles and laughter all around her, I hope she is able to make her way to the PFLAG booth where she will find the people who will give her the biggest hug she is able to receive on this day of celebration. Perhaps then she would be able to look back on Pride as a personal celebration, the anniversary of receiving her first congratulatory hug for saying out loud, “I am a lesbian.” And her first PFLAG Loves Me sticker.

I Before E

Not long ago, I was given an impromptu opportunity to play stage manager for two friends who were rehearsing a duet. Their performance was that evening, and they were more than a little scattered with excitement. I took charge, making sure they had all their costumes together, their props, and that we left on time. I drove.

Nearly 40 years ago, my friend Pam asked me if I would be the stage manager for a newly-forming theater company. I had never even heard the term ‘stage manager’ before, but I readily agreed to come along and see what it was all about. A number of my friends were part of this new endeavor, and I wanted to support them and be part of it all.

Pam knew full well what a stage manager did, and knew that it was right up my alley: Keeping track of all the details of a production, finding the right props, making sure they were placed backstage in the right place, riding herd on the actors to make sure they were in the right place at the right time, etc.

Playing stage manager for my two friends in preparation for their duet took me back to a role I had not played in several decades. I was able to put the role on but the experience also showed me how much I have changed.

Time was, I would have described myself as a detail-oriented person, as behooves a stage manager. Now I find myself more at home in the big picture. Post-transition, post-spiritual awakening, I find that my natural inclination is to view the big picture. Prior to understanding my identity, I wasn’t living in the details so much as I was hiding in them. I could not afford to look at the big picture; I would have found it difficult to maintain the needed distance between myself and my true identity as a transman.

Looking at myself through the Myers-Briggs lens, I am an INFP. (Myers-Briggs assessment) The N and F and P are clear and beyond debate. (Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiving) The I (Introvert)? Not so much! It all depends on the circumstances…

The following anecdote will come as a complete surprise to anyone who knows me. When I was in eighth grade, 13 years old, one of my English class assignments was to give a three minute speech to the class, on the topic of our choice. All term long, I managed to evade my turn. I was terrified at the thought of speaking in front of my class. On the last day of class, the teacher called on those of us who had managed to evade the speech, and we had to get up in front of the class and with no preparation at all give some kind of a speech.

Of course, I was the first person the teacher called on. I got up,  petrified and certain I would have absolutely nothing to say, and then inspiration struck. What happened in that moment is something I have experienced often since, but this was my first time to feel the exhilaration of holding court with an audience. I started talking about how terrible the cafeteria food was, and my classmates erupted in applause and laughter. I was giddy with the excitement of performing.

Looking back at various such experiences over the years, I believe that my identity as an ‘I’ was largely determined by my need to stay out of the limelight: I did not want to be noticed – as a girl. (And thinking back to that eighth grade class, especially not as a 13-year-old girl!)

I am very comfortable as a teacher, leading workshops, facilitating groups, giving speeches – put me in front of an audience, and I am in my element. I won’t even say “put me in front of an audience as long as I prepare, and I am in my element.” I am perfectly willing to spontaneously get up in front of an audience and talk about almost any subject.

Does that make me an E on the Myers-Briggs spectrum? Not precisely. I still prefer the company of a few good friends at a time, rather than a large group of acquaintances. I would not want to go to a party where I didn’t know anybody. If I find myself in that kind of situation, I look around for the other introverts in the room, and pick one that I think I would like to talk to. We then go off in a corner and become friends.

One of the gifts of transition is the opportunity to revisit who we really are. I am nowhere near the ‘I’ that I would’ve thought earlier in my life. That quadrant of the Myers-Briggs assessment is especially open to reevaluation post-transition. Many of us were not really introverts at earlier times in our lives, but it sure made a convenient hiding place.

A 24-year-old epiphany

It’s been about 9 months since my return from touring China with the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus. How appropriate — long enough as a gestation time. In the first few months after my return, I attempted to make sense of the spiritual awakening that came my way during that 10-day trip. I have never in my life had such an intense experience in such a short period of time, changing me to the core. Given that I include transition in the mix, that gives an idea of how life-changing this trip was for me.

I puzzled and wrote and processed with several helpful friends during the fall of 2018. I came away from all that conversation with a much more centered perspective on my identity: I am an honorary lesbian transman, happily married to a woman, singing baritone in the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus. All me, all the time. I was at peace with my identity, though still mystified by the speed of my spiritual emergence. I didn’t yet see there was a connection between these various processes.

Come January 2019, I began preparing for my baptism, approaching on April 20. Extending my introspection about identity during the fall, I became more introspective about the history of my spiritual identity. My curiosity was aroused.

During the summer of 1995, as I have written in several blog entries recently, I experienced a breakdown of self and identity unlike any other that has ever come my way. However, sometime during the winter of 1995, my life did an abrupt about-face. I went back to school, got my Bachelor’s degree, went off to graduate school, got my Master’s degree, became a therapist, wrote two books, numerous book chapters, and built a life for myself. Oh, and in the midst of all this change and growth, I transitioned. So… I went from a complete breakdown of identity and sense of self to a jubilant sense of renewed purpose and joy in life? Why? What just happened here? I came back from China asking that same question.

Recently I re-read some of my writings from my grad school days, and therein lay the answer, not only to the mystery of why my life did an abrupt about-face that winter of 1995, but also a new explanation for China:

“I still had periodic bad times, particularly on Friday nights. Sundays had structure because of evening choir rehearsals, but Saturdays had no structure to them, and a structured schedule was much of what held me together that fall and winter. I dreaded Friday nights, always followed by a day with no structure. Whenever I had bad nights, I would wake from a crushingly depressing dream, always, it seemed, at 3 AM. I came to dread 3 AM, a time when I felt no one else existed in the world.

“One such night I woke and was so depressed and in such despair that I just said through my tears, to no one in particular, “Help me. I can’t do this anymore.” And suddenly I felt… lighter. I would not describe it as the presence of God or any other deity known (or unknown) to humanity. I just felt a release from the sense of isolation I had lived with for so long. I no longer felt alone and knew I had come through a darkness that would never be quite so overwhelming again as it had been in recent months. I later learned to call this the dark night of the soul, and to realize I had survived a spiritual emergency. All I knew at the time is that I was through the worst.“

When I re-read this passage, describing a night I had forgotten, I laughed at myself. These days, spiritually woke, I would totally call this “the presence of God, or any other deity known (or unknown) to humanity.” Before this visitation by grace, I was a complete mess. After… well, the rest is history.

After… There were clues along the way that my real spiritual awakening began not in China, but that winter night in 1995. Here are a few examples:

  • I chose a graduate school that focused on a holistic view of people as a mind-body-spiritual whole.
  • My mother and sister both died in 2004. I was alone on Christmas Eve, and overwhelmingly lonely. What did I do? I took myself off to church. I looked to religion for solace. I didn’t find it – I wasn’t ready to be open enough for that; nevertheless, church is where I went.
  • When I met Cristina in 2007, a devout Orthodox Christian woman, I investigated converting to Orthodoxy. If this tradition were already welcoming and affirming, which some generations from now it will be, I would have converted happily. My deepest spiritual experiences have been in Orthodox services, long before the trip to China that turned out to be the last step on my journey. (Or perhaps I should say, the first step on the next stage of my journey)

China was not a 10-day experience that resulted in a spiritual emergence. China provided the last bit of catalyst needed to allow me to recognize my 1995 spiritual emergence for what it was. China provided exactly the right factors:

  • We were in a country where I saw no churches for 10 days, allowing me to experience my spirituality without external influence. Back in the 1990s, I was deeply and negatively affected by the anti-gay ballot measures put forth by a few fundamentalist Christians. I had never realized how much those experiences affected me until I didn’t see a church on every corner.
  • Traveling about all day every day by bus, we were in a country where not only did we not understand the language, we couldn’t even read the signs out the bus window, forcing us to interact all the more deeply with each other. I had long conversations about transition, religion, and my history, revisiting my early transition time for the first time since I experienced it. One of my bus mates was a deeply spiritual person, affording me an opportunity to talk about trans identity in the context of my emerging spirituality, for the first time ever. I needed that witness, a non-judgmental person who was wholly supportive of my process and would later become my baptism sponsor. (Episcopal)

I have noticed a striking parallel between my transition process and my spiritual emergence process. In 1995, asking the simple question, “What would it be like for me to walk around the world as a man?” changed my self-perception forever, in the realm of gender. It had taken me three months of angst and breakdown of identity to reach that simple question. China provided a confluence of conditions balanced and poised in such a way that they provided the final catalyst, allowing my spirituality to emerge in its fullness, ready to be labeled accurately. Perhaps because it was my second go-round with identity questioning, and I was starting from a more centered place to begin with, it only took 10 days in China for me to come back with a new self-perception, that of a religious person. Ten days – and 24 years.

 

Intention is Everything

Lent took on a whole new meaning for me this year. Having a newly-awakened spirituality, I learned what the season actually means. Like most of my non-religious friends, I used to crack jokes about Lent, viewing it as a form of self-imposed martyrdom: “So what are you giving up for Lent this year?” It always seemed to me faintly ridiculous to give up a favorite food or beverage just because Easter was coming.

Now I understand Lent as an opportunity for self-examination and exploring my life. What are my goals? How do I approach each day such that I am fulfilling my Nia? One of the seven principles of Kwanzaa, Nia means purpose, as in the purpose of my life. In undertaking this level of self-examination deeply, I surprised myself by being most drawn toward examining my eating habits. Am I really hungry, is that why I’m eating right now? Why did I choose to eat what I am eating? How do I feel now that I’ve eaten it? How do I know when I’ve had enough? My eating habits became more conscious than not.

At various times in my life, I have tried to modify my eating habits. This change in behavior has usually been the result of a conversation with some kind of healthcare professional. In other words – a diet. My Lent exploration marked the first time I have looked at my food intake and food choices from an approach that was not based in physical health, or on someone else’s input. My approach this time was one of curiosity, without judgment of the answer.

In the five months since the beginning of Lent, I have lost 45 pounds. I know this because my wife was curious, as my clothes were fitting differently. I was wearing shirts I have not worn in 15 years. I can’t wear any of my pants without cinching a belt. My wife asked me to weigh myself; she now tells me I’m half the man I used to be. Because I had not been approaching this as a diet, it had not occurred to me to weigh myself during the process.

I call my new approach to food, intentional eating.

  1. Am I hungry? This may seem like an easy question, but it is also a loaded one. There are many kinds of hunger. So – is my stomach empty and my system craving the nutrition of food? Or am I seeking to fill a different kind of emptiness and using comfort food to do it?
  2. What do I most want to eat? This also may seem like an easy question. However, what is nutritionally sustaining to my body may not match the foods I have thought of as comforting in the past. Because I am now eating to sustain my body, I am more aware of what my body craves as sustenance. I inhabit my body in a new way.
  3. How do I feel now that I’ve eaten it? There are various foods that are no longer a regular part of my diet. I’ve realized I don’t have a sense of well-being after eating bread, for instance. So, I no longer buy it. I’ll have some garlic bread with eggplant parmesan. They go together. And, my body will tell me one piece is enough.
  4. How do I know when I have had enough? If I am eating for reasons other than sustaining myself physically and mentally, the part of me that is aware that I’ve eaten enough may be silenced. If I am eating to fill an emotional need, the physical cue of feeling full will not quiet that appetite. Most often, my hedonism used to get in my way; I would continue to eat because it tasted good, my taste buds overruling my body’s attempts to say, “We’ve had enough now!”
  5. I am hedonistic about food. Faced with a table full of my favorites, I let my body dictate my choices. It will tell me when I’ve had enough. This probably means eating a little more than enough; the resulting feelings in my stomach will be sufficient cue to stop. What I find is that ‘enough’ is a much smaller quantity than I would ever have predicted pre-Lent.

Because my intentions don’t stem from an external source, I have been able to take these questions seriously. I don’t use them to beat myself up. If I eat a bit more at one meal then another, I am doing so because the answers to the above questions informed how much I ate. What I have learned is, once I take these questions seriously, I don’t find comfort food comforting emotionally. It just makes me feel sick; the quantities I used to have to eat to comfort me were far more than my body could enjoy. However, in taking these questions seriously, I am also taking myself more seriously. And in so doing, I am able to look at my emotional needs seriously as well and address them more appropriately than by eating.

A byproduct of intentional eating is that I am able to understand what my body wants as sustenance. I would rather have an orange for dessert than ice cream. If I have cake, I’m satisfied with a bite. Cake does not appeal as a form of sustenance. My taste buds enjoy the bite; the rest of my body would not enjoy an entire piece. I thoroughly enjoy my morning coffee, but after a cup and a half, it stops being enjoyable. So I stop drinking it for the day. A backhanded advantage to being a food hedonist – I enjoy my food far too much to be willing to feel sick from eating it.

I am eating what human beings were always meant to eat, the fruits of the land. Without a lot of processing. I’m not eating raw, I do cook things, but the things I’m cooking are all things that my ancestors would have recognized as coming right off the farm. I feel more in touch with myself as a creature of the earth. This feeling of harmonious connection has led me in the direction of becoming vegetarian.

I am writing this blog entry in large part because various friends have approached me in the past few weeks. A 45-pound weight loss is noticeable, and they have noticed. I’ve been asked variations on, “How did you do it?” I have told them about my approach, my conceptualization of intentional eating. That’s the easy part. Harder to convey is that the more important question for me is, why did I do it? The food-consciousness approach I’ve taken is the basis for many diet plans. For me, however, this weight loss has been a by-product of a wholly different goal. Losing weight wasn’t my goal; being mindful of my Self and how I move through the world was my goal. During this Lent season, this seems to have translated to mindfulness about food.

The Gift of Social Media

I have quite a presence on Facebook. Just ask any of my 943 Friends. I consider it one of my missions in life to make people laugh, or to feel better by lifting them out of the mundane or depressing for a moment. I often read posts from people slamming social media – people are disconnected from each other because they’re always on their phones, it’s too easy for disagreements to escalate to a point of never speaking to someone again, etc.

There is merit in these criticisms. There is a photo collage on a wall in my local queer community center. The collage depicts a time I remember well, the early 1990s when Oregon was facing the first of several anti-gay ballot measures. Most of the pictures were taken at public events of one kind or another – marches, rallies, political speeches. What struck me most was the undivided attention being given the speakers. Every eye was focused on one thing, and one thing only. Our attention was unanimous.

A photo of the same event today would capture a scene with half the people not paying attention because they are texting, and the other half not paying attention because they are taking pictures of the speaker and everyone else at the rally, including themselves. The remaining 5% are listening but not with full attention because they are irritated by the majority. Everyone is operating on the assumption they don’t need to pay attention in the moment because the speech will be widely available later via their favorite social medium. And they’re right.

I sing in the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus. I know full well that much of the power of our performance comes from sharing the air with our audience, singing live and in person. Recordings of the chorus are far less powerful than the chorus live. The same holds true for life in general – the point is to LIVE it, not RECORD it.

If I feel this way, then why have I titled this piece the GIFT of social media? Several reasons…

Sandra. Kathleen. Naomi. Dawn. Gayle. People from my past – some I haven’t seen in over 40 years – with whom I wouldn’t be in touch at all if we hadn’t found each other on Facebook. These reconnections are reason enough for me to look kindly on Facebook.

And there’s another reason. My brother died on March 13. Writing comes as naturally to me as breathing. Part of my grieving process meant sitting at the keyboard letting my feelings flow in words. I wrote a eulogy for my brother and posted it to Facebook. Within hours, I had received such an outpouring of loving support, exactly right for me in that moment.

For someone more on the introverted side, the support I received that day was perfect. I would not have wanted to face the in-person support of 150 people saying some variation of, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” As it is, I was able to feel the love and not feel alone, while being alone.

Used properly, social media provides a level of connection quite comfortable for an introvert. The danger for the introvert is to use Facebook to completely replace face-to-face interaction. Sharing the air is still important. At chorus rehearsal after I posted my brother’s eulogy, several people came up to me and gave me big hugs. Perfect support for this introvert – 150 people giving me support through Facebook, and five giving me heartfelt hugs. I felt the love.

A More Brilliant Country

The other evening, we had friends over for dinner, in celebration that our friend N had been granted political asylum in the United States. During the course of the conversation, our friend S, an ex-pat from Britain, commented that the original Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence was one of the most brilliant documents ever written on behalf of a people.

I was quite taken aback by this comment. My political awakening came during the Watergate era of Richard Nixon’s administration. I was in my mid-teens at the time, quite susceptible to cynicism. In recent years, I have wondered if I would have initially become a Republican if Nixon had been a Democrat. As it was, I found it a simple matter to demonize Republicans and exalt Democrats. In the ensuing years, the level of discourse between the two parties has increasingly degenerated into the type of name-calling more often heard on a playground. Hence my surprise at hearing our political system complimented.

And in truth, S was not complimenting our current political system; she was complimenting its roots. The Declaration of Independence. The Bill of Rights. Those were remarkable foundations to lay. These principles were laid down in such a way that with very little tweaking, they can be applied to everybody. And that is the beauty of the system that S was complimenting: the wording is such that no one is automatically excluded by virtue of identity or birth status. That it hasn’t worked out that way to date doesn’t negate the beauty of the system as it could be; it makes it more frustrating that the system has never worked to the degree that it could.

N was granted political asylum because he is a gay man who had been working as an activist in his own country on behalf of people who were HIV-positive or had AIDS. He was granted asylum because his life was in danger in his own country, largely because he was living gay in a country that refused to recognize that gay people existed within its borders. S and I attended his asylum hearing, waiting outside while he presented his case for several hours. He then waited several weeks to hear the decision. He cried with relief and happiness when he learned he would be allowed to remain in the United States.

Why did it surprise me so to hear my country’s original system called brilliant? Why was I surprised that N was so happy to be told he didn’t have to leave? I do have my cynicism about my own country’s system of government. Learning about the American governmental system as a child, I never took in its brilliance; all I saw was its flaws and faults, and it seemed hypocritical to me. “All men are created equal” seemed a hollow phrase given the backdrop of the 1960s civil rights movement, taking place before my youthful white eyes.

The current rancorous discourse has derailed the conversation away from the language of the Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Now, seen through the eyes of my friends N and S, I appreciate the distinction: all are created equal. Yes. What we have been striving for since those words were written is that we all live equal.

My friend N is a reminder to me – what is brilliant about our system, as S pointed out, is that we have the legal freedom to undertake the pursuit of living equally for all. A dangerous pursuit? Yes, at times, here or elsewhere. N tried in his home country to make a difference, and had to leave to save his life. To honor him, to honor the personal sacrifice he has made in leaving his family behind, I work within my own system, so all may live equal. I would like our current system to be as brilliant as S stated about our founding. I may not live to see that day, but that does not negate my obligation to work toward it.

There’s No Place Like Home

1976… I turned 21 on September 1. On that date, I registered for classes at Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon. A few weeks earlier, I had left the cocoon of the San Francisco house I grew up in, moving 700 miles to attend college. A fateful decision, Pacific University. I could’ve gone to Hofstra University. I could’ve gone to the University of Iowa. I could’ve gone to UC Berkeley. All had accepted me. But I chose Oregon.

Two years later, I moved the thirty miles from Forest Grove into Portland. With the exception of three years away at graduate school, I have never lived anywhere else. At an age when I could not be expected to know any better, I had happened upon the place that is Home to me.

1997… Another 21 years has gone by. On June 20 of 1997, I experienced my first injection of testosterone. My physical transition had begun. By late summer, I was a baritone, no longer an alto. I was giddy as a 14-year-old boy usually is. Exhilarated. A bit terrified, having no idea how to live as a man. And at the same time, knowing that I could not continue to live as a lesbian once I realized I had misunderstood my identity all those years. Onward and forward, without the least idea what the journey would look like. I had happened upon the place that is Home to me.

2018… Another 21 years gone by. 21 years living as a man. Comfortable now living as a man, understanding better how to navigate the world and relationships with others as a man. Embracing the identity transman. Happily married for 10 years. Happily singing in the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus for 11 years. A stable life. Then I went to China, on tour with PGMC. On September 1 I celebrated my 63rd birthday by singing with PGMC in the Forbidden City in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square.

I don’t think I will ever be able to convey in words why China changed me to the degree it did. The change was every bit as profound as every other 21 year change I’ve experienced in my life. I came back spiritually woke. I feel a sense of connectedness to life, the universe, and everything and everyone in it that I have never felt before. I have happened upon the place within that is Home to me.

OK… What does 2039 have in store for me, I wonder? I will turn 84 that year. And I fully expect that year to contain a change in my life every bit as profound as the previous three ‘21 years’ have done. Where will Home be?

A rather abrupt ending to this blog… might as well — how could I possibly have written my other ‘21 years’ in advance of their unfolding? Moving to Portland? Transitioning? Becoming religious? And at 84… becoming… … all I can safely say is, I will be Home.

Like Night and Day

In May of 1995, my then-partner said to me, “I’ve always felt like a man inside.” This revelation from a partner of seven years rocked me to the core. I was a founding member of the Portland Lesbian Choir, and that group was the center of my life. My spiritual self-care has always been connected to singing. Beyond singing, my family of choice, all my close friends, the structure of my life, my social center within lesbian community – the PLC was all that. I had never needed the Choir more than at that time, and it was devastating to me when June came and Choir was on summer break.

During the course of that summer, I experienced what I later learned to call the dark night of the soul. I was depressed, paralyzed by dread and self-doubt, bordering on suicidal. Along about August, I made an attempt to better understand my partner, tired of the repetitiousness of my thoughts spinning down into the same depression and recrimination. Breaking the cycle, I asked myself one day, “What WOULD it be like to walk around the world as a man?” Far from dread and self-doubt and anxiety, that question brought to the surface a most-unfamiliar feeling of excitement and a giddy exhilaration, startling me no end. From those feelings emerged the now-inevitable realization: “OMG – me too. I need to transition too.”

September… back to PLC. In June, I was ‘Nancy, a founding member of the PLC.’ In September, I looked the same. I sounded the same. And no one yet knew that I had become ‘Reid, the guy who is eventually going to transition.’ It was a surreal experience. I had changed so much I felt like a new member, yet everyone was treating me as they had in June, having no idea anything had changed.

September 2018… long living as a transman. Settled into Reid. Settled into baritone in the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus, now a member nearly as long as I was a singing member of the Portland Lesbian Choir. Married. Over 21 years on testosterone, the same amount of time I had lived in lesbian community. What could possibly change now?

Then I went to China. My dark night of the soul is easily explained. I know precisely why I cycled downward in 1995. I have no idea why I cycled upward in 2018. China exploded my heart open to life, the universe and everything. I came back looking the same, sounding the same, as I did when I left. And yet, as in 1995, changed to the core. Spiritually awakened. Energized. In the three months since my return, I have processed and puzzled and written reams, seeking the same level of understanding as 1995. And not getting it.

I have now blessed and released the question, “What just happened here???” I have adopted instead a new mantra, the closing line of the iconic lesbian novel Patience and Sarah: “You can’t tell a gift how to come.”

Reclaiming Thankfulness

When I was a kid, I gave little thought to the meaning or origin of Thanksgiving (or any other holiday, for that matter) — the celebration of holidays centered around time off school, and an all-family gathering at my house. Winston Churchill once said that history is written by the victors. Though probably not speaking of Thanksgiving, this saying is all too appropriate in considering this particular holiday.

When I was a kid, the official history of the U.S. (as written by the victors) went something like this: our ancestors landed on Plymouth Rock. There were some people there who fed them through their first winter. Later our ancestors fought off the global empire of Britain and declared themselves an independent country. We were inordinately proud of this. I grew up with the belief that the West was settled by brave souls who ventured into unpopulated lands, bringing order to previously uninhabited areas. Indians were depicted as savages who popped up randomly and unpredictably to attack the brave homesteaders. Manifest destiny epitomized.

I never knew until I was long adult that the westward movement of white people was a genocide. So this means… Thanksgiving is a holiday in celebration of genocide? Damn. ALL my ancestors, on both sides of my family, were on this continent long before any westward expansion began, but nowhere near as long as the folks who ended up being killed or displaced. Damn.

It is a nice idea to have a holiday dedicated to giving thanks. I am now attempting a reclamation, a day of thankfulness not for genocide but for the blessings in my own life. This is a new holiday for me, Thankfulness. This past year, I am thankful for:

January 4… every January 4, I am thankful for Cristina. Our first date. Every time I go in Peet’s Coffee on NE Broadway, my eye is drawn to a particular table, where we sat smiling shyly at each other in 2008. Every 4th is our monthaversary. (I never can decide how to spell that…)

Attending the Trans Voices Festival in Minneapolis in April. Despite a freakish blizzard that closed the festival early, this was a wonderful weekend. So energizing to meet other trans singers and performers. My peeps! In a moment of weakness I approached the organizers and said the next one would be in Portland. I am thankful for the committee that is helping me organize this endeavor. Go us!

I am thankful for the New Insurgency Revolutionary Choir. Connecting musically with Naomi Littlebear Morena has given me new singing connections with my past. Singing once more with some members of the Portland Lesbian Choir has brought me full circle to my roots. My first choral experience was with the PLC.

The Portland Gay Men’s Chorus. I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I’m not sure there are words enough to express what this organization means to me, especially after August 30. On that day, we took off from Seattle and flew to Beijing. The ten days in China that followed changed my life to the core, leading to the rest of what I’m thankful for.

I am thankful for a newfound connection to spirituality that has added a peaceful dimension to my life, and a deep sense of connectedness not only to others, but to myself. My life is now one continuous seamless thread, no longer pre-transition and post-transition. I am thankful for the reconnections I have made as a result — Amy, Lynda, Kathy, Adrian.

I am thankful for the profound bonds I formed with various chorus members as we shared this intense and exhausting and exhilarating trip. We have brought those connections back with us, revitalizing the chorus and deepening the bonds between all of us. Half the chorus went to China, and all of us are reaping the benefit.

Most of all — I am thankful to be me. PGMC is singing a song in our upcoming holiday concert, Nia. One of the seven principles of Kwaanza, nia means ‘purpose.’ I am thankful that my purpose in life has been, continues to be, fostering connection and hope. As a therapist I was aware every day of my impact on others. The awareness has been less tangible in the years since I left the profession. Now I understand — while I may not be part of the profession any longer, that doesn’t mean I have stopped practicing its guiding principles: understanding people in the service of fostering connection; giving support as needed and appropriate; giving advice rarely. Through writing, through teaching and mentoring, I continue to live out my nia.

I’m looking forward to seeing what I have to be thankful for in the coming year.