Jane Spot On

Fly in the Ointment

2012-01-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

Hot damn, I thought at the time, I want to be in on this. I was, after all, a professional, and what better way to get the story of a presidential election run amok than to be a suddenly empowered voting member of the electoral college, where I would not necessarily have to cast my vote for the candidate I was pledged to. It was clearly the opportunity of a lifetime for anybody who believes-as I do, for good or ill-that aggressive political action can be a very effective way of controlling your environment in a democracy. --Hunter S. Thompson, Better than Sex

I started this blog because of the 2008 election. I was vested in the outcome. I believed, with many, that there was hope on the horizon. This woman, having grown up through the political melee of the 70s, was ready to be involved and fierce about campaigning. In the four years since, I've become disillusioned with the usual suspects and games. I'm ready for some real change. That's why the quote from Hunter S. Thompson tops this post.

For the first time, in a long time, I feel as if I have my political voice back; I'm not allowing it be held hostage by any party or person. Much of this is due to the Occupy Movement and discussions with friends about that.

Having read through the Occupy Declaration, which you can find here, and reading again the Declaration of Independence, I realized that I needed to take action on my own. I am an important part of the experiment that we call the United States of America. I have a voice and the only time it's co-opted is when I allow it to be. I am purposefully ending that now.

Many will talk about the dangers of voting for a third party: that it splits votes; puts the election in the hands of the House of Representatives; endangers any advancement. I say, no. Casting my vote for the candidate that I best think will fulfill the obligations of president, senator, or representative is what I'm called to do, and what I will be doing. I am not voting party lines this time; I'm voting real progress and hope.

I look forward to discussion with friends and acquaintances about this. Join me. This is our country; our voice matters.

Now, to research some candidates.

New Year Passions

2012-01-06T13:12:00.000-08:00

The Great Redwood forest is an awe-inspiring place. The trees have been there for hundreds of years and are a testament to the longevity of nature. These giants stand as historical markers for the forest. They are placeholders, milestones. It's easy to be captivated by the trees and miss the other details of the forest: the flowers, the birds, the seedlings.
I like markers along my path. I like to see where I've been and know that I'm still on my path. Growing up around the Mason-Dixon Line in Maryland, I was imprinted early with the idea of marking specific places and times. In that part of the U.S., you can't drive very far without seeing an historical marker. They became part of my make up.
I sit down at various points throughout a year and find my markers: New Years, Spring Equinox, Summer Solstice, birthday, Autumnal Equinox, Winter Solstice. I stop on these days and take stock of where I've been and what's been happening.
I have spent so much time evaluating that I have missed the forest for the trees. Don't get me wrong - my process of discovery has shown me much, and I've been able to make changes and find new paths. I've also missed some small, significant moments.
2011 was a mixed bag for me, and in fact until January 1, 2012 I would have told you that I was glad to have 2011 finished. It was a rough year; problem was, I was looking at the wrong markers. I saw the loud, audacious moments: the five hospitalizations, the hundreds of hours in doctors' offices, the loss of a job. I had missed a quiet moment that planted something brand new. Each new seedling has the potential to be a giant Sequoia; the thing with the seedlings, they need space and light to grow. I had almost hidden this seedling among the giant events that had happened along the year. With this in my sight, I'm thankful for 2011 and all it brought.
As I fully enter this new year, and recognize the milestone of the date, I'm making some resolutions.
1 - I will continue writing and do more of it.
2 - I will continue to learn to play the guitar. I will own the guitar.
3 - I will continue to downsize my life and remove those things that are not important but take up space.
4 - I want to see the seedlings.

Conversations in the Dark

2011-12-18T23:46:00.000-08:00

"What does NDAA mean," I heard as I walked out of the bar Saturday night. There was some discussion among those standing in the circle. I spoke up, "National Defense Authorization Act." The woman in the group gave me a high-five. One man offered to buy me a shot of Jack Daniels. Another approached me and quickly invaded my personal space.

I could tell from his haircut and the way he carried himself that he was in the military. I asked him what branch and what he did. "Army. I'm a Ranger. I just got home from my eleventh deployment to Iraq and Afghanistan five days ago." I told him I was glad he had returned home safely. His wife, who had given me the high-five, let out a victorious yelp.

We spoke briefly about the implications of NDAA. Then he looked at me and said, "I didn't serve over there to protect you. I didn't do anything for you. I killed people who had no business dying. I lost more friends than I want to think about." I let him know that, while I do not agree with our government's choices, I understand the job he had been doing and understand how hard it is. The flood gates opened.

This man, I don't know his name, began to tell me what he had done while in Iraq and Afghanistan. He talked about the people who set IEDs and the women in Afghanistan who still do not live freely. While the alcohol dampened his emotion, in his eyes I believe I saw the damage. I asked him if he had anyone to talk to. One of his friends approached and said, "We talk to each other."

I couldn't do anything for these two men, or the wife of the one. I listened. I felt completely helpless and angry. I'm not doing justice to the interaction or the emotion that this man shared with me.

The men and women are returning home. The horrors they've seen and done live in their hearts, minds and souls. It will forever change the way they see and interact with the world. NDAA is of little consequence to them; the man on Saturday told me that he didn't agree with it, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He hugged me before he left. I looked him in the eye and told him, once again, that I was glad he was home safe. "Me too," he said.

World AIDS Day 2011

2011-12-01T17:56:00.000-08:00

Ignoring the shriek from the nurse to "Robe up," we charged into Mark's room. Mark was vomiting, blood. The nurses, doctors, and medical technicians were still terrified of AIDS patients and often did not provide adequate care. The care for our dying friend fell to us. We didn't know much. We knew we loved our friend and were going to do whatever it took to care for him.

It was 1987. Harvey Milk had been out and proud, and then killed. Stonewall had occurred, and we'd seen our community stand up and begin to fight back for our rights. Yet, for many of us, life in the closet was still a reality. Our families had forsaken us, and, more and more, the society around us was doing the same.

We watched our friends get sick and die. We saw doctors and scientists throw their hands up in despair or disregard. One million people in the United States were already HIV-positive or had full-blown AIDS. The number was only going to increase. We were desperate, and we only had one another. We became an impenetrable force shield. We became angry. We hoped for a future.

Now, 24 years later, I'm still angry. I still have hope. In the between years, I've lost six friends. I laughed and danced with them. I did stupid, fun things with them. I held them when they heard their diagnosis. I witnessed the toll the disease took on their lives. I watched as the morphine dripped into their veins during their final days, thankful for the release they would soon experience. I promised each of them I would keep fighting.

So, today, I recommit to fighting. Someday I will not hear from another friend that they are positive - unless it's that they are positively in love. Until that day, I am here. Mama bears are vicious, and I got my claws out!

For the record,I will care. I love you, no matter what!

It's a Heavy Price

2011-11-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

So, Veteran's Day. We're supposed to say thank you to all those who have served our country, protecting us from the evil that is outside and preserving our freedom. I find myself overcome with anger at those who send out thank-yous to all who have served. Those 30-second thank-yous cost nothing and diminish the cost that the soldiers and their families pay.

I'm not talking about the trillions of dollars that spent to wage battle - that is a minuscule amount of the true costs. The true costs start when soldiers come home and re-enter their families and lives.

Shell shock, battle fatigue, PTSD - it's come in many names, but the consequences are the same. The men and women who return from serving are not the same; what they see and do is beyond the scope of the human brain/soul/heart to comprehend. The soldiers and their families live those horrible acts over and over; they live with a sense of fear that lingers through their life.

I remember the fear of wondering if my father would return home alive. I lived in housing units where I heard shouting and violence on a regular basis. One friend recalls her father imprisoning her mother, at gun point, in a closet. He thought she was the enemy and was holding her until his unit picked him up. This man was taken to a psychiatric hospital and never left.

Today, I will not post a "thank-you" on my social media outlets. I will not defuse the impact of military service on the soldiers and their families. I will hope for a better tomorrow. I will hope for healing for all harmed by battle.

Musings and Misgivings on Election Day

2011-11-08T16:03:00.000-08:00

"I wish I could show up to the steps of the White House in Shirley Temple drag and say 'Brother could you spare a dime?'" - Joshua Kadison

Almost two months since the beginning of Occupy Wall Street and I'm just getting to writing about it. I am moved in so many ways by the movement and its progression. Oftentimes, when I'm asked to write about myself for some social network, I end up posting a list of dichotomous traits. It's the truth. I am, more often than not, torn between the polarity of thoughts, situations, even movies. This has been no exception.

I am the adult child of a career Army soldier. My father served for 27 years. He provided for his family and believed in his service. He had a stint in Viet Nam; he worked in a field where he could not talk about his work with his family. He imparted to me that the liberties granted to me in the Constitution were sacred. He taught me love for the documents on which our nation is founded. He also taught me to love the other countries in which we lived. We never did agree politically, though.

I was 13 years old when I saw an election in Panama. I lived in the safety of the Canal Zone - American soil in the middle of a country slightly smaller than South Carolina. The election that I saw shook me and formed much of who I am politically. The people did not have joy when they cast their ballot. There were ways in which they were intimidated to cast ballots for the people who were to win. I understood then the importance of a free election. My heart grieved that day for the people. My heart sings when I drop my ballot off and it is in a secrecy envelope.

And now, I see thousands in a country with, ostensibly, free elections exercise their right to voice their discontent with the state of their nation. It is not lost on me that my father would be calling them peaceniks and hippies. It is also not lost on me that he served with a sense toward allowing these people to assemble as they are. I wonder what he would think of the current state of our country. We've sent young people to fight in wars that have damaged them beyond what we can imagine.

They come home to find that there are no jobs, minimal opportunities, and their benefits cut from underneath them. He dreamed of college for his children and grandchildren and now it's possible that the cost will prohibit his grandchildren from reaching that dream. My father served for so many reasons, and he always believed in the ideal of his service. I can't help but believe in it also. I've seen my two oldest nephews off to serve in the military. My heart swells with pride in their desire to serve others, but my head knows that there is much more at stake and at play.

Their age peers are some of those in the Occupy camps; it's not lost on me. I stand for the right of each young person to choose their path and voice. So, I stand with my nephews in the ideal of serving so that the Occupy Movement can exist. I believe that both are necessary for the full, effective working of our country.

I believe in a United States of America where there are options and opportunities. No, it is not guaranteed in the Constitution, but it is explicit in the Declaration of Independence. It is a foundation of our nation. So, I stand with the Occupy Movement. I am ready to help them stand when they falter, and they will. I am ready to see us provide new guards for our future security.

Soul Feeding

2011-08-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

I am blessed to be surrounded by amazing artists. I have friends who are writers, musicians, painters and actors. Some of them are double and triple threats. These people, sometimes more than others, are what keep me going.

I've not talked about it here, maybe because I was under some impression that I was being strong, or I didn't know what to do with comments from people, but I face some serious medical issues. I have been in the hospital four times since January. (Feels strange to put this in writing, and not the focus I want - pushing on.) This has sent me running to places where my soul is fed. Sometimes this is staring at the painting by Lorraine Toler that hangs in my apartment - a generous gift from her. Or it means reading part of David Weekley's In From the Wilderness: She-r-man or Glen Retief's The Jack Bank. I connect with them in these ways, and I feel less lonely.

Recently it has been listening to the music of a friend who has reentered my life. My Facebook status is peppered with lyrics from songs he's written. I sit listening to him play and sing. These adventures have expanded the circle of artists, and I sit and revel in musicians playing the music that feeds their soul. My absolute favorite is when they become lost in what they are playing. In those moments nothing exists but the musician and the music. It is magical and mysterious; it is an honor to be present for these moments. They are light.

When these moments end, the light they've created shatters and spreads to all who are open to receive the gift. I, possibly selfishly, grab as many shards of light as I can and hold them tight. This gets me through whatever comes next. This gives me hope to continue the path that I walk. This feeds my soul.

So, I press on with the gifts of amazing artists. I thank you all, and ask forgiveness for any embarrassment I may cause. You all feed my soul, and you know who you are.

Riding Trains

2011-04-08T14:27:00.000-07:00

Ah, the merry month of April. Okay, okay, the song says May, but that's too far away to think about right now. It's April in the Pacific Northwest and the sun is out. I'm on my way to Portland to visit my wonderful friends David and Deborah Weekley. We will celebrate the release of David's book In From the Wilderness. This is a great achievement for David and Deborah, and I'm thrilled to be sharing in the joy.

This train ride is also allowing me time to put down in writing where some of my thoughts have been recently. It's an almost three hour ride through beautiful, diverse territory. We left my home where we traipsed along the edge of Commencement Bay. Now we are in the midst of deciduous trees, marsh land and small rural towns. The scenery changes often and quickly along this train route. By the time I step off the train, I will have moved from sea level and salt water to the fresh water of Columbia River.

I've been thinking, musing, stressing over, and emotionally wrapped up in my time in ex-gay/reparative therapy. It's been 15 years since I walked away from my Pentecostal church, community and support system to live fully as the person I know God made me. What holds my thinking is that I still find ways that those previous 11 years shape my self-image.

From 1985 through 1996 I was a member of a Pentecostal church. Yup, holy rollers, speaking in tongues - the whole bit. I stay away from talking about the specific spiritual practices of Pentecostals because that is their chosen expression of faith. What I am now choosing to speak out about is the spiritual abuse I was subjected to while a member of that community.

I was 19; had finished a year of college at an all-women's college and knew undoubtedly that I was a Lesbian. (Caveat - now in 2011 I label myself as Queer, understanding the implications of labels and the words I choose.) At the end of the academic year I returned to my family home in Tacoma, WA. And the rub began.

My father was an Army Veteran of 27 years. Everything that this conjures is pretty true of my dad. He was strict and lived in a state of constant structure. There were clear lines of right and wrong, good and evil, acceptable and not under his roof. My sexuality fell into all of those categories, and not in a way that was affirming or supporting. Survival would mean retracing the steps that had led me out of the darkness of the closet - I would go back into the closet.

This is not as easy as it sounds. Once the heart knows freedom, it does not willingly go back to being bound and enslaved to a truth that is not its own. It takes work, strict rules and definite structure. I was introduced to Pentecostal Christianity and the answer to my need to hide my inner most true self.

The pitch for Christianity wasn't that if I accepted Jesus as my personal Savior that all of my problems would disappear. It was instead that there was a definite way of being - to be a God-fearing woman. If I strove to be this person, I would soon find that I my "same sex attraction" would become less important and I would be able to live a life filled with the blessings of God. Too good to pass up, I went forward at a Power Team crusade meeting and "gave my heart to Jesus." The ride had begun.

It didn't take long before my European sense of fashion would become an issue. It was 1985; I had three piercings in my left ear and two in my right. I still had a rattail - about 9 inches long and blonde, I'm a dark brunette. My hair was short. I wore pants - a lot.

Side bar: Wearing pants was a huge aspect of my self-expression. My father had told me from an early age that only dykes wore pants. I knew from the way he used the word that a dyke was not something I wanted to be. My father pointed dykes out to me whenever we were in public. I'm not sure how he knew that the women he chastised were in fact Queer, but his accuracy wasn't important. The intensity of his actions and words, the unspoken understanding that being like these women was not the way to be his daughter, all led me to a place where I wanted to be the best girl I could be.

Once in the Pentecostal church, it became evident to my pastors and leaders that I was not the common, run-of-the-mill girl. Engaged in Bible study we would talk of the proper role of women in our society. This was defined as a home-maker, mother, willing servant. I wanted to be something, and a wife and mother were not included in that - at least in the beginning. With my questioning of gender roles as shown in scripture, my pastors and leaders knew how they could help me be the God-fearing woman I kept saying I wanted to be. They had to break my rebellious spirit and teach me how to be the kind of woman that Jesus loved. Thus began the dismantling of my newly shaped gender, and with it my identity.

Next time -- my boy was too much and my girl was not enough.

A Moment in Time

2011-02-27T14:37:00.000-08:00

I have been pondering the impact that well-known people have had on my life. I do not want to sound like these are the only people who have had any effect on my life. I've just been pondering "the stories" of my life. You know, those moments that are really beyond my ability to create. There are precious moments in time. Meetings that were synchronistic.

On October 13, 2004 I was the ASL interpreter for Terry Tempest Williams; the author of Refuge. During Refuge Ms. Williams looks at the combination of her mother's dying and the drying up of the Great Salt Lake. She uses the message of nature to understand this particular moment in her life.

That particular week my father was dying -- there I sat three feet away from Terry Tempest Williams. She spoke of our connection to the environment. While I was interpreting my mind roamed over the ripples of thoughts and images from Refuge. In that moment I was unsure of why I was treading these worn paths. I struggled to be in the moment -- a dangerous hazard for one who is to be interpreting what is happening currently.

At the end of the lecture I went up to Ms. Williams to thank her for the lecture. I am an introvert and do not approach new people easily. Looking back, all I can think is "boy, you stepped in it that time." Ms. Williams is very present when she is with someone. She turned her eyes to mine and held my gaze. For me, this typically happens only with Deaf people, it is necessary for complete communication.

Ms. Williams took my hand and asked what was happening in my life. She asked before I could even speak. I found myself suddenly overcome with grief -- the grief I'd held back for several days. Ms. Williams stayed in that place with me. She stood with me in the midst of the forest that was shaping around me, standing to mark my place while the brambles of sorrow wove around my feet trying to carry me off to an "easy" place -- sealing me to this place of my deepest fear, losing a parent.

My tears percolated on my lashes as I tried to be "professional." In that moment, I awoke to a natural phenomenon occurring in my life. Mt. St. Helen's was "burping." For the three days before this lecture, I watched the news to see the show from the mount. Every few hours a cloud of ash would come from the crater of Mount Saint Helens. She was talking. To me. She, and I mean the mountain, was walking the path with me. I looked at Ms. Williams; "Mt. St. Helen's is relieving the pain of holding on to too much. She is acknowledging her pain and showing us all how to do the same." Ms. Williams smiled. She'd spoken not a word.

I remember to this day that I need to look around me to see where Nature is paralleling my own life. I remember how Ms. Williams stood with me where I was - how she marked my place so that I was not lost. In Ms. Williams I had a guide; in the mountain I had a sister.

2010-08-24T10:51:00.000-07:00

“The politicalization of food is almost nonexistent. . . .no one bases their primary social identity -- . . . on it. No one considers our appetite to be a source of self-knowledge. . . .Eating has almost no consequences for morality or sin, and we don’t struggle to come to terms with our hunger the way we do our sexuality.” (Queer Theory, Gender Theory – Riki Wilchins, page 51.)

How is it that I can’t get away from food and its effects on my gender, sexuality, worth or self-image?

Why I eat is for me, about self-knowledge. I don’t eat to simply live. I eat for pleasure – just as I engage in sexual activity for pleasure. The afterglow of a well-prepared meal can be as glorious as post-coital bliss.

In the same way, when I break social norms and over eat, or eat the “wrong” things in public, the shame I feel around food is no less impactful than the shame I felt hearing that my attraction to women was an abomination. I exist in a society that is as concerned with how I look, and what I eat, as it is with whom I have sex. Proportionally, I grapple with how to navigate the lanes of approval and alleys of shame.

I see the faces of people who are repulsed by my body size. And, I can hear critics tell me not to be “so sensitive.” I’ve spent myriad hours learning how to tell the face of a kindness from the face of disgust. One might think that such an act isn’t difficult but in a society that teaches how to “clean up” it’s not so simple. Subsequently, for me, the dilemma becomes how to neutralize the disgust from others and give kindness to myself. In this way, food becomes something with which I must “come to terms.”

Will I live outwardly as a person who enjoys her palate? Will I hold my head high as I enjoy some tasty forbidden treat? Will I care if I’m not seen as pretty or feminine? Can my gender and sexuality be something other than outward physical characteristics judged by others?

Herein lies one of the most obvious injustices I experience as a woman. It is evident from so many arenas that I should have more respect for myself than to allow myself to become so unappealing, however I do not see the same external influence for men to conform to a universal image. In recent years a woman who wears a size 12 has become “plus-size.” Even the language we use makes women their body, “I am a size ‘blank’.” I am not my clothing size – or at least I don’t want to be that indicator.

In the U.S., medical care is now in the forefront of political discourse. My body size is of vital importance to my caregivers and insurance company. I am often dismissed when attempting to address any maladies I may suffer, because of my weight. “If you would lose your excess weight. . .” often begins the final diagnosis by providers. I am invalidated of legitimacy because I am overweight. I must always be concerned that some serious health issue will not be covered by my insurance because the reason of the catastrophe is self-inflicted. I spent one year trying to get a doctor to listen and help me. At each new turn I was met with a diagnosis I termed “fat girl syndrome.” After I received a legitimate diagnosis those who had initially dismissed me were protected by the company that pays their salary. Medically I do not fall within the boundaries of formularies and indexes. How much more politicized can something be?

Recently, Zack Ford and Peterson Toscano, in their Queer and Queerer podcast, episode 12 (http://zackfordblogs.com/2010/06/queer-and-queerer-ep-12-thats-so-fat-body-image-and-metrosexuality/) quoted an article that ran in the New York Times stating that gay men were thinner than their heterosexual counterparts and lesbian women were larger than their straight counterparts. The explanation given was a thinly veiled statement about gender identity in the gay and lesbian community. Again, I was reduced to my body size – such a beautiful irony.

I cannot even count the times I’ve been asked if I have relationships with women because I am not attractive to men. How does one answer such a question? My life is not a reduction to the lowest common denominator. I can no easier answer why I’m queer than I can affect the tides. This line of thought, by implication, questions my gender: if I am a “true” woman then men would find me attractive, and conversely me men.

My attraction to women is not a “parting gift” from some bad roll of the dice concerning my body. My body size does not negate my gender. My gender is not my physical appearance; it is instead – well isn’t that the question of the hour?

Early on I stated that food has a connection to my self-knowledge. At the root what brings me pleasure or discomfort, comfort or pain, is a practice of knowing myself. It is a process of including those things with which I resonate. Consequently, foods that are appealing to my senses, all of my sense, become part of the lexicon that crafts my life’s menu. While others may not characterize me according to what food I eat, I am categorized by the effect the food has on my body; my public image and the self-image with which I struggle to accept is formed, at least in part, by the food I eat and the effect it has on my body.

Story Time

2010-04-11T18:04:00.000-07:00

After months of not posting, here I am again. I've been contemplating the work of telling my story. This questioning has created the opportunity to talk with Peterson Toscano about the power and necessity of telling our stories.

My initial reaction is that I'm tired of telling my story. How many times must I explain to another what it is to grow up in abuse? How many times must I continue to tell the story of what it is to live my inner-most truth out loud? This makes me tired. I don't want to have to explain again. I want others to do what is right without being convinced. Then, I discovered my story has changed.

I was at the Reconciling Ministries Network BOLD - Believe Out Loud training yesterday. The focus is on how to tell one's story in order to touch the hearts of others. I went to the training with some reluctance. I felt honored to have been asked, but I was also feeling tired of this exercise. When it came time to break into small groups to practice our story I felt as if I was walking through a thick hedge. The brambles of so many previous tellings scratched at my mind.

Once with the small group I was struck with the thought that I could tell the story of my deciding to become an ally for transgender brothers and sisters. This is a story that I've shared only a few times. I've discovered that some people do not give up their privilege without a change of heart and mind - it was that way for me, yet I wanted others to act differently. Oh, how judgmental I become.

So, I created a short, two minute, story of meeting a beautiful young girl this past September. How this young girl touched my heart and showed me that I'd focused my sight, world view and understanding only on myself.

As a small group we were asked to pick one person to share their story with the larger group. My group, without a word, all pointed at me. I was the chosen one. Here I would be, one who was wondering if story-telling was a powerful tool - tired of the work that it involved, asked to share my story.

In the larger group I shared the story of hearing this young woman tell me that God had made a mistake with her. I spoke succinctly, slightly uncomfortable sharing in a large group. (I am an interpreter and used to being in front of many people, but sharing my own voice is nerve-wracking.) I could see the faces of the group; I saw a woman begin to cry. My short story had touched her heart.

As the other participants shared, I listened to amazingly courageous people share their experience in an unjust world. I enjoyed hearing these stories and sharing in the strength and courage of these people. Sharing in the telling of their stories. At the end, my story was the only one that mentioned transgender people. The group hosting this event is a para-church group that works for the full inclusion of LGBT people. How could it be that only one in seven would tell the story of our trans brothers and sisters? My heart was opened.

My story is now how I have moved from a life where injustice still lived in my heart, and I was concerned only with my own rights, to working for a more complete inclusion in the church and the world. This story is important to tell.

Recently, Peterson Toscano was an artist in residence at the university where I work. On March 31, he did a performance of Transfigurations: Transgressing Gender in the Bible for a celebration of the Transgender Day of Visibility. In between the scenes of Peterson's play four men shared their stories. As people have talked to me about the performance, the most cherished moments were those of the men sharing their stories.

Since that performance, I've realized that it is important for me to tell the story of becoming an ally for my brothers and sisters. It is a way of connecting to those who have not worked openly for this inclusion. For those who still struggle with themselves. It allows me to relate to those who feel they want to "understand" before they work for justice and full inclusion. It is a way for me to speak of my privilege and exhibit how to use that privilege for the work of justice.

Story telling is an ancient form of teaching. Story telling is an ancient form of bringing a community together. Story telling is necessary. It is necessary for me to work through my discomfort and tiredness. It is necessary for me to tell my new story and at the same time work for justice. Again, life shows me that it is not either/or but both/and.

Epiphany - A Time to Think and Grow

2010-01-11T09:02:00.000-08:00

I just read this blog with great interest. What caught my eye was this quote

Because if Epiphany – from the Greek epiphaneia, meaning manifestation or revelation – is a celebration of the light of Emmanuel, God-among-us, then part of this celebration requires our search for how God is revealing Godself among us and prodding us to move forward.

How is God being revealed around me? Am I open to the revelation, or do I wonder if it's "real"? The first thought I have is of meeting an 11-year-old girl who was attending Gender Odyssey with her family this past September. She introduced herself to me and within mere moments was telling me God had made a mistake when she was created.

My heart broke; God had not made a mistake with this beautiful girl. Humans didn't understand what they SAW. We look to believe with our eyes only, refusing to feel or acknowledge what our hearts reveal. This young girl taught me to pay attention to the revealing in my heart. She was not, is not, and never will be a mistake. I am the one who often walks in mistaken information.

Being a Trans-ally is new to me. I am experiencing emotions at higher levels. I get incensed, often when I could use the opportunity to share or teach. I marvel at how everyone around me doesn't sense the prejudice that is so palpable it can crush my spirit. Then, I'm reminded that I once could not see, sense or understand.

It took an epiphany from an 11-year-old to show me what I had been missing. She, along with the continued support of Peterson Toscano, helped me embrace my alliance with my sisters and brothers. I have much to learn. I have much to experience. I have much to give. I continue needing Epiphany.

Labyrinth Walking

2009-09-20T16:38:00.000-07:00

My thoughts are so varied that I'm not sure where to start. That's why the title of the post; labyrinths wind around and take their time getting to the center, and once there, one must walk out again through the same path in the opposite direction. The labyrinth is about process not destination, winding not direct routes -- it mirrors life. These thoughts below, while maybe not spot on, are where I am.

I work in the oldest building (Jones Hall) on a beautiful university campus. (University of Puget Sound) There is a certain spot on the stairs; this spot is a pivot locations for all who traverse the stairs. I noticed that this spot is worn - indented. It's worn by all of the shoes turning on this one spot; it's become magical to me. I stand on the spot for an extended second. I feel connection to all of the staff, faculty and students that have come before my time, are present with me now and those yet to come. I've worked in this building for five years and just noticed this spot about two months ago; it holds the meaning of magic and miracles for me. So many times we aren't paying attention and there is something magnificent right in front of us. When we finally stop and become present in the moment, we become touched by the feet of the thousands who've gone before us -- it is less lonely that way.

Peterson blogged today about feeding his soul. He had an amazing week of drinking in the lavish art that is so readily available to all of us. He closes his post by asking these questions: "What about you? What has been a source of creativity, of sanity, of healthy vitality for you? What do you feed on to keep from going into soul poverty? What do you do to keep yourself grounded in reality?" I found that I didn't have any ready answers. How do I believe that there is art around us, easily accessible, and yet not know what I do to replenish my soul, and stave off poverty? I think the simple answer is that I do not take care to feed my soul enough. I get caught up in banality.

I am one who tends to make grand sweeping changes. That almost always leads to failure. So, I need to make small steps. I need to write more often to get my thoughts out -- work on my craft. I need to read more. I need to listen to more music. So, I'm making the decision to write at least once a week, read at least twice a week, and by read I mean fiction or poetry. I will also listen to new music at least once a week. I bought a Bible in a year book -- in The Message. It is a way to read the Bible in a new way. I am going to do my best to keep up with the short daily readings. Lastly, I will be easy on myself; I will extend grace to myself.

How do you answer Peterson's questions?

It's Not About Me

2009-09-10T19:02:00.000-07:00

I had the great pleasure of seeing my friend Peterson Toscano (check his blog here) and "interloping" into the Gender Odyssey conference last weekend. My intent was to enjoy time with my friend. What happened was life-altering.

I have, for some years now, been "trying to understand" Transgender people and issues. Understanding eluded me; I watched documentaries, read interviews, went to lectures and read books. I made acquaintance with Trans men and women. I still didn't "get it." I was approaching this from a personal perspective. That was the problem. It was never, is not and will not be about me. I don't need to understand; I need simply accept and love.

I admit that Transwomen felt to me like a man telling me how to be a woman. I could "see" a misogynistic pallor in Transwomen. I also resented the "privilege" that Transmen would receive in society -- they would get to leave behind the stigma of being female in a male oriented world. Thing is, that was about me; that was my life snapshot coloring my thoughts.

As I watched an 11-year-old girl play and a room full of people experience Peterson's play Transfigurations, I realized I was trying to understand and consequently missing the person in front of me.

I remembered saying to an elder in church that the issue with acceptance of gay and lesbian folk in church wasn't about getting to know them, it was about following Jesus' example of being with people in truth. I was tired of being under the microscope in order to help someone understand. When this happened I felt my humanity stripped; I became a thing to be investigated and dissected. Yet, I was doing the same to my Trans brothers and sisters.

Now I start a new way of being. I want to accept people in truth. I want to know them in their fullness. I ask forgiveness from my Trans brothers and sisters -- it was always about me and my stuff. Thank you all for sharing yourself with me. My life is indeed richer, and I am more genuine because of your acceptance of me.

Peterson introduced me to an amazing musical duo, Coyote Grace. The song Litte Tree, written by Joe Stevens has become a prayer that I sing for myself. The lyrics are:

little tree, the moon is high/darkness covers the world tonight/from your tiny seed i've watched you grow/cradles in the dirt, your soul/the earth will teach you all it knows/little tree, don't be afraid/dream your dreams of making shade/if the wind blows strong then learn to bend/if the fire burns don't fear the end/take joy in holding a nest for a friend/little tree, the sun is here/there's a reason you were planted here/though you may be weak and small today/may your roots grow deep so you may sway/you're of this world, this beautiful day

Thoughts on a Thursday

2009-06-18T20:17:00.000-07:00

There are so many thoughts running through my heart and mind. I don't know where to begin. I am posting this video from Iran. That's the biggest thing on my heart -- these people who want freedom.

I'm at the Annual Conference for the Pacific Northwest United Methodist Church. We are to be voting on a constitutional amendment that would state that all means all. It needs a 2/3 vote from all voting members in the General Conference. Right now it is almost 50 - 50. It will not be ratified. It breaks my heart. Some of my church do not want me -- I want to change that to say "some" or "others" but I feel this personally. Very, very personally. It hurts so much to be seen as not worthy of God's love and grace -- particularly when I believe that NO ONE is beyond that love and grace. This feels like a futile exercise. Truly. That's where my mind, heart, soul are. People hate and hurt. It happens here in the U.S. as well as in Iran. People want to be free. When will we all know that everyone is of sacred worth?

Blowin' in the Wind

2009-06-05T21:45:00.000-07:00

I stood outside cognizant of the wind. It was moving a willow tree. The branches danced and skipped and the leaves seemingly changed colors and they did. I wanted a dress that flowed like the branches of the willow, that changed colors depending upon how it moved. Now silvery green, now spring green, now greeny silver. I wanted the branches of the tree to drop all the way to the ground so that I might crawl inside and live. A magic place where faeries, dragonflies and hummingbirds would come and be with me. Wind and flight. Two of my favorite things.
Once a young boy asked me what my secret power was; I turned the question back on him – wanting to know how he saw me. He told me that my magic power was wind. I could blow all the bad things away. That’s pretty impressive if I say so myself. More importantly to me, to have this boy trust me in such a way was humbling. I do not feel like I can blow the bad things away from my own life, yet here this innocent stood seeing me as this protector in his life.
Waiting for a bus on Friday I thought about these things. I found it interesting that this Virgo – Snake (my Chinese zodiac is a snake) loves wind and wants to fly. For years I was terrified of snakes. Absolutely terrified. I couldn’t watch t hem on TV or movies. Couldn’t even think about them. The question popped into my head – am I afraid of myself?
I’ve been battling one “bug” after another since September 2008. There have been times when I’ve been on IV antibiotics followed by large doses of oral antibiotics. It is easier for me to count the time I’ve not been on antibiotics. It has taken months of doctor appointments and being tenacious with doctors to get any kind of real diagnosis. Finally, in April I received a diagnosis of psoriasis. But, so what?
At one point during this health crisis my friend Kelly asked me why I was attacking myself. I wanted to hit her. How could this be my fault? I’ve been through enough to choke a horse in my life. I work very hard at not being a victim. I want to be alive. Yet here was someone who can see my heart well asking me why I was attacking myself. Then the thoughts on Friday – why do I want air instead of earth?
I don’t have any answers – I don’t even know if I’m asking the right question. Then again, am I attacking myself by thinking that there’s something wrong with me. What if the desire for air is a balance? In other words, what if I’m grounded in my earth element, in who I am and now seeking to balance my weaknesses? Is this a way of teaching me how to be more gentle with myself? Is this a teaching of how to let go of those things that I cannot change?
So, this is where I sit this Memorial Day weekend. Maybe I’m not attacking myself. Maybe I just have an auto-immune disorder and need to learn how to live with it. Maybe this is the season wherein I start learning to laugh more at myself in good light-heartedness. Maybe I can blow away the bad things from my own life. I can learn to use my secret power for myself.

The wind is coming from the East

2009-05-21T21:45:00.000-07:00

It's time for change. Real change for Jane. It's been a long time since I've written anything, and I am now in need of writing so that I can see for myself where I have been, where I'm going, and where I can head.

I do not believe that there is some predestined route for me to meander. This path I'm walking has many turns, switchbacks and dead-ends, and it's up to me to choose the directions. For too long now I've been letting some mystical, unknown source "lead" me. Truth is, I've been walking in circles. And not the good labyrinth kind.

To be frank, I'm exhausted - physically, emotionally and spiritually. That is ending now. I am going away this weekend -- thanks to the beneficence of some amazing friends. I plan on praying, writing, meditating, watching, and writing. My plan, goal, is to post on my blog at least twice a week. I am hoping that you, my friends will help me with this goal. You don't need to comment, just keep me honest. I need my village to help me go where I want to go. This journey is not done alone.

Thank you to all who have been with me over the last six months as I've floundered and known that I wasn't myself and loved me through it. I would not be ready to make this change without you. Please look for more posts soon. I invite you to walk along with me as I continue my journey.

Find peace and experience joy,
Jane

Rt. Rev. Eugene Robinson's Invocation on Sunday, January 18, 2009

2009-01-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

None of the TV channels that covered the event on the Lincoln Memorial carried the Rt. Rev. Robinson's prayer of invocation. I'm posting it below in hopes that more people will read it and think about what he's saying.

Jane

A Prayer for the Nation and Our Next President, Barack Obama

By The Rt. Rev. V. Gene Robinson, Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire

Opening Inaugural Event
Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC
January 18, 2009

Welcome to Washington! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God's blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will...

Bless us with tears - for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger - at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort - at the easy, simplistic "answers" we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience - and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be "fixed" anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility - open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance - replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity - remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand - that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.
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AMEN.

Ideal Bite - Elliott Bay Brewery Pub Cask Third Thursdays - Seattle

2008-11-19T08:46:00.001-08:00

Ideal Bite - Elliott Bay Brewery Pub Cask Third Thursdays - Seattle

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Marriage Equality Demonstration in Tacoma WA

2008-11-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

I'm posting a slideshow of pictures from today's demonstration in Tacoma WA for Marriage Equality. I want to thank Alexander Donohue who took the pictures while I attended to ASL interpreting duties. Let's keep the pressure on people -- what do we want? marriage equality! When do we want it? NOW

Marriage Equality 11-15-08

Brutality

2008-09-12T13:57:00.001-07:00

I have a strong affinity with wolves. Yes, I read Clarissa Pinkola Estes Women Who Run with the Wolves. It spoke to my heart, but there are so many other ways that I value wolves. I really don't understand how a HUMAN could promote the savage killing of another beast. If what separates us from the other animals is our ability to think and reason then it would seem to follow that we would understand that it is wrong to wantonly kill another. It breaks my heart that people are allowed to use helicopters to track the animals and then are rewarded more money for bringing in the foreleg -- as proof of the kill. It makes me ill. Here's the ad.