Connective

I want to be visible in women’s clothes because I want to be able to connect with other women.

I know how to be visible as trans to speak as a shaman, to stand for continuous common humanity, to do my part to open the space for others to explore, express, emerge and heal.   That’s work for me, a fight to make, the kind of fight I make in my writing everyday.

I don’t find that work all that directly rewarding, though.  It demands a great deal of me and tends to keep me separate from others, speaking from authority and power.

Easy connection, though, comes hard for me.   I don’t have the training for it, I don’t have the mind and vision for it, I don’t have the understanding for it.

The kind of connection that I do comes from a very deep, a very fundamental place.   There is only one humanity and we all share it.

The connection most women have is essential, bonding over a shared essence.  It’s their flavor which gives them easy connection.  They have a shared history,  shared experience, a shared outlook.

The connection women have with men is often more essential than fundamental, exchanging flavours with a smile or a flirt.  They have learned to enjoy the complimentary essences of gender, coming together with a bit of a spark, no matter how tiny it is.

Even transpeople have trouble with fundamental connection, with the kind of queer approach which affirms the choices of another even if we would never, ever make them for ourselves.   Instead, they look for affirmation of their own choices, rejecting those who make choices which squick them.

That essential connection is beyond me, even if I own the fundamental connection incredibly deeply.

From the first trans support group I went to, I knew that playing out some kind of magical fantasy of external transformation — “Now I’m Biff! Now I’m Suzy!” — would never work for me.   Instead, I searched for androgyny, a more integrated gender expression which reflected my fundamental humanity.

Moving beyond simple group boundaries, though, has moved me beyond simple group boundaries.  I just don’t have “my peeps,” a group that I feel safe, at home and connected with.

My lack of training in how to be a group member is definitely a part of this challenge.   That history gives me an experience which sets me apart from most people who have prized group identity for most of their lives.   They have trouble understanding the experience of an outsider, just as extroverts have trouble understanding the experience of an introvert.

Assuming that our different experience is just because we are blocking our natural behaviour leads them to tell us to relax, ease up, drop our barriers and just “be natural.”   Explaining that we are being natural is met with dismissal and even derision; how can we not be regular like them, even if we block it?

If I can’t connect with other women, if I am stuck just being a potent queer shaman, where do I find simple caring, fellowship, understanding and nurturing?

I have been to people who identify as healers, but rather than meeting me where I am, finding common ground, they mostly do their traditional manœuvre, demanding that I sign up for their doctrine before they can help.   They only have power, they think, on their own terms.  They come from a fixed belief system, not from a place of connection.  Their way is the only way they think healing can work.

Meeting people where they are is the key to my healing approach, trusting that everyone is a unique individual.   My connection to them is not in what we both believe or in how we both follow the same rules, but rather in the fundamental shared human nature which binds us.

It’s more work not to have a standard routine, but is also much more rewarding to see people find their own unique power, to emerge into their own special blossom.

I know how to be visible as trans to speak as a shaman, to stand for continuous common humanity, to do my part to open the space for others to explore, express, emerge and heal.   That’s work for me, a fight to make, the kind of fight I make in my writing everyday.

Feeling essential connection, though, feels like the lifeline I must have.

And it feels very distant.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s