TDOR 2018: Burden Of Rememberance

Burden of Remembrance

As a transperson, one thing I have learned is simple:  the most important part of anyone is what you can not see at first glance.   Humans are like icebergs, 80% hidden beneath.

Personally. I look to see what they remember the most: the story in written their heart, or the legacy written in their scars.

Transpeople are always caught between these two memories.  So many of our scars exist because our family, our friends, our community told us that the story in our heart was a lie, told us that they were the only ones who knew who we really are.

When we tell the truth found in our hearts we are called liars, leaving scars.   When we tell others what they expect to hear, policing ourselves, those scars throb with denied truth.  Lie or be called a liar is a choice that can only break a heart, is a choice that can only break our heart.

The veil of remembering to keep our heart hidden engenders a burden of darkness, a burden often called the closet.  Nothing grows strong and healthy away from the light, away from the brilliance of revelation.  Instead of informing and empowering our lives, those dark memories weigh us down, leaving us living in our fears which become lessons to avoid and deny.

It is always easier to know who we aren’t than to know who we are, easier to pick out an enemy than to embrace our own nuanced, human, flawed and profoundly individual heart.   It is easier to remember our scars, to focus on those who hurt us, hoping they will be erased, rather than to have the courage to reveal our authentic heart, taking the blows and discovering the gifts which come when we follow our bliss.

What lies beneath the exterior of a transperson?   If you don’t mind me taking you to a rather dark place – the inside of my brain – I can offer you a list of the things that I am remembering right now.

Strap in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.


  • Remember to fit in
  •  Remember to hide your difference
  •  Remember not to show fear or any other emotion that may trigger them to attack you
  •  Remember to play small and keep your head down
  •  Remember to not catch their eye, remember not to invite scrutiny
  •  Remember not to flirt
  • Remember not to use the restroom
  • Remember you can’t trust anyone, so stay hidden
  • Remember they aren’t staring at you
  • Remember to smile, no matter how scared you are
  • Remember their reaction is about them and not you, even if they act out and yell
  • Remember there are normal people who look like you
  • Remember that you belong here, at least as long as you don’t upset the children
  • Remember not to confuse people, as that can piss them off
  • Remember to modulate and attenuate your voice
  • Remember to show your tells
  • Remember not to show any doubt or ambivalence lest people pick at you to try and “prove” you wrong
  • Remember that you never know how others are seeing you so it is just safest to assume the worst
  •  Remember that people who know porn may well assume your expression is just about fetish and partying
  •  Remember that others will get stuck in your biology and your history, not in your possibilities
  •  Remember that you don’t have permission to break the rules, so don’t let them catch you lying
  •  Remember not to fall for your own exuberance or passion; you will just get hurt again
  •  Remember that you have lost your standing as normal, that you can’t stand as a man or a woman, so trying to defend yourself will just confirm their judgment that you are broken, cracked, angry and humourless
  •  Remember that even if you are just trying to tell the truth, many will see your choices as a political attack on their beliefs
  •  Remember that they believe they are more scared of you than you are of them, and that they are entitled to their fear while you are not entitled to yours.
  • Remember to swallow your pain, deny your loss and shout down any challenges.
  • Remember to keep your rationalizations, your excuses, your defences sharp.
  • Remember you can’t expect others to change.
  • Remember that many will call you sick & deluded, a freak or a pervert.
  • Remember that their sense of being entitled to unthreatened comfort isn’t about you, even if it marginalizes, dehumanizes  and attacks your expression
  • Remember that your rage at being silenced is not only incomprehensible to them but is also seen as an unprovoked attack against their simple values.
  • Remember not to show anything when they mock & degrade people like you
  • And most of all, remember to stay silent, remembering all this alone.

Here’s the problem, though.  With all this to remember, there is a very good chance you will forget who you really are.

Remembrances hidden quickly become burdens.    Instead of informing and empowering our lives, those dark memories weigh us down, leaving us living in our fears which become lessons of avoidance and denial.

I carry the weight of trans remembrance with me everyday.    As much as I may try to share this history, I have found that few understand this weight of remembrance, the memories which correspond to our inner map of scars.

The only way I have been able to move beyond this burden is to open to the song in my heart, the music that was there long before the world tried to tell me who I must be.

This is what I look for when I see other transpeople, or just other people in the world: what is the story written in their heart, the power deep beneath their scars?

One of my favourite quotes is from George Bernard Shaw.  “My tailor is the only sensible man I know. Each time he sees me, he measures me anew .”   Every human, if we are lucky and strong, grows to emerge from behind their scars and into the glory of our heart.

What do I really need to remember today?   I need to remember to transcend my history and my biology to claim that song in my heart.

And I need a community around me who is ready and willing to listen, able to sing that song back to me when I forget it.

Seeing what we thought we had to hide and embracing that essence is the best way to open ourselves to love in the world.

And it is the best way to honour lives lost because they were made invisible.

Remember that we aren’t our body or our history.   We are the choices we make anew everyday.

Remember love.


The Cost Of Adaptive Behaviour

I can’t go on like this. I am burnt-out and exhausted. This, I have read, is common in autistic people, particularly those who have struggled for years to ‘pass’. It is called the cost of passing. It is essentially exhaustion brought on by the extra strain of pretending to be something one is not.

Tony Attwood summed it up well for me. He told me: ‘People with Asperger’s or autism expend a huge amount of mental energy each day coping with socializing, anxiety, change, sensory sensitivity, daily living skills and so on. So they’re actually expending more mental energy. Think of it as an energy bank account. They are withdrawing so much energy throughout the day just by surviving. It is why children at school, for example, have almost no mental energy left for the actual lesson – because they’re coping with the sensory, the anxiety, the social.’


For Tony Attwood, late diagnosis for girls and women usually means a greater number of issues later in life. He told me: ‘The trouble is that girls are good at camouflaging it. We often don’t pick them up until they’re in their teens or older.

‘Those diagnosed late or in adulthood have worse outcomes. They didn’t get support and understanding at a formative time in their lives. What concerns me is that they created a scaffolding to survive, but that it may not have been the best approach and that sometimes that scaffolding has led to all sorts of issues and concerns, such as depression, low self-esteem, and not having an anchor in society.

‘I ask, When would you have liked to have known? and they say as early as possible. I thought I was stupid, mad, bad. I wouldn’t have been depressed. I wouldn’t have escaped into imagination. I would have handled things differently. I could have explained myself. People would have understood me. I could have been protected. And, after the euphoria of diagnosis and an explanation, there is the wish that it could have happened earlier. Then there is the fact that the scaffolding has been taken away. What do I put in its place? There’s almost a grieving for the lost person.’

-- Laura James, "Odd Girl Out: An Autistic Woman in a Neurotypical World"

While I am only autistic by training — both my parents had Aspergers — I profoundly understand the long term cost of passing, understand the issues and concerns caused by inadequate support during formative times which created flawed scaffolding and restrictive, crippling armour.

Jesus Loves You.  Everyone Else Thinks You’re An Asshole.

I never, ever trusted that I fit easily into any group.   I knew that I had to work, and work hard, to be compelling and of value, but that even then, I was going to be the freak, the weirdo, the odd-ball, the goat.   I was routinely reminded what a shit I was, embarrassing to my mother and basically worthless because I didn’t make her feel proud, happy or serviced.

In my mind is a massive, lifetime archive of the times I screwed up, the times I felt stupid and ashamed.   This inventory started as lessons, things to avoid in the future, but over time it turned into a vat of shames, triggers to make me turn away from events that have touched me before, coding me into avoidance.

Avoidance, of course, is what I learned growing up.  My only agency was to be sly, and manipulative, working from the shadows to create whatever change was possible.  As a guerrilla fighter I stayed out of the spotlight, staying wacky, frayed at the edges, never assuming that I could participate in normative ways, always the clown with wit rather than the star living in the assumption of desire & adoration.

It was my training, my family shaping that lead me to this, but it was also my awareness of my queerness.   My trans was out as early as the therapist I was sent to in eighth grade, the minister I reached out to when I was 15.   The lessons I got from them were simple: stay in.   Keep it hidden, pass as whatever the hell you could pass as, no matter what the price of denial and losing the power of my formative years cost.   Adultified early?   Absolutely, which lost me the exploration of my own fluid possibilities, hardening me in a way that was out of any natural shape.

You can’t explain yourself when you don’t have words, which is why I have spent a lifetime searching down useful phrases, but when people are so stuck in themselves, all the words make no difference.   I knew that my words were only useful to me, not useful in a world where the audience only cared about their own needs.

I understood the lifetime price of this Morey Amsterdam joke the first time I saw it in the 1960s.

Scarcity, you see, captures the mind.

All those decades, all that loss, all that twisting into shapes not natural to me, all that brain coding which scarcity imprints.

And now, somehow, I feel the need to transcend that past.  And I have not been able to find any support structure which can understand, empathize, comfort and coach me in moving beyond the costs of a lifetime, the costs written on me because The Body Keeps The Score.

“I’m glad you are not one of my salespeople,” the slick Marketing VP told me, “because I can’t figure out what motivates you.   All your ports are filtered, so there is no way to push the desire buttons in your unconscious.”   Overthinkers who underachieve, yes.   The price of passing.  So much mental energy for defence that there is none to achieve flight.

My anchor is internal.   It had to be.  I played a lot on my own.  That’s powerful, but it is also limiting and lonely.

I had a dream the other night where I was with a huge group of family members in a tourist house in London.   I wanted to change, but I found there was not only no room and no time, but other people were picking out what I should wear.  I knew their choices would make me look clowny, but I tried, though I was upset.   Janet from The Good Place appeared, though she was more like her improv trained portrayer, the brilliant D’arcy Carden, and she said I should do what I like.   She helped me make selections of what worked for me, holding off the family by telling them that they had to let me make my own choices, that they had to listen to me.   I felt strong, seen, supported, so I started to riff, even wandering through the store performing, gathering an appreciative audience.   At the end, my sister in law still had to explain to me her point of view, what was really important, but I just smiled because I knew Janet had my back.

I woke up and cried.

Could I ever have been protected and safe, away from the enormous, draining, lifetime cost of adaptive behaviour?

Doesn’t really matter now, anyway, does it?


The Doctor had a sex change.

Now that they are in the body of actress Jodie Whittaker, Doctor Who is a woman.  Reviewers praise the performance, saying the 13th Doctor now has “malleable status,” moving from palsy to authoritative as needed, not staying in as fixed a role as a man might.

“You don’t look like an alien.”

“You should have seen me a few hours back.   My whole body changed.  Every cell in my body burning.  Some of them still at it now.  Reordering.   Regenerating.”

“Sounds painful, luv.”

“You have no idea.  There’s this moment, when you are sure you are about to die, and then, you’re born. It’s terrifying.  Right now, I’m a stranger to myself.  There’s echoes of who I was and a sort of call towards who I am and I have to hold my nerve and trust all these new instincts.  Shape myself towards them.

“I’ll be fine. In the end.  Hopefully.   But I have to be, because you guys need help, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, when people need help I never refuse.

“Right?  This is gonna be fun.”

That moment, that self awareness, came when faced with the kind of challenge and conflict which clears the mind.

“We’re all capable of the most incredible change.  We can avoid while still staying true to who we are.  We can honour who we’ve been and choose who we want to be next.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m glad you asked that again.  Bit of adrenaline, a dash of outrage and a hint of panic knitted my brain back together.

“I know exactly who I am.  I’m the Doctor, sorting out fair play throughout the universe. “

The doctor found their anchor, and so was able to act without fear, without the kind of self doubt that corrodes away the power of so many of us raised human.

I knew that I needed an anchor to keep me strong and focused as I approached transgender expression in the world.   Why do I do this?   Is it just for indulgence or for some kind of truth?

Real is the word that vexes me most in this binary world.   For things to be “real,” many say, they have to fit nicely into binary categories, be this or that.  Male or female, man or woman, good or evil, privileged or oppressed, patriotic or destructive, one of us or one of them, whatever or whatever we believe its opposite to be.

Reality, though, is much more nuanced, more faceted, more complex than that.   As much as we might feel comforted dividing into binaries, the quantum state is truth; observation creates the form.

The 13th Doctor knows they are really the Doctor, so has no reason to doubt or justify why in this moment they are wearing a bra.

Many transpeople fall into this trap when they want to present themselves as anchored in a way that binary thinking people must accept.  “I am really who I am right now!   This is who I always really was, no matter what you saw me as in the past!   Questioning me is questioning reality, because the reality I assert is the only real reality ever!”

I knew that this kind of anchor would just drag me down, forcing me to deny or hide the facts of my extraordinary life, my stories of exploration, and the truths that I worked so hard to unearth from the conventions of society around me.   I would have to police myself to placate anyone who might question me, have to defend myself from challenging connections, have to surrender my hard won voice.

My transgender nature is part of my work, my calling.   That’s the anchor I found to save me, the idea that there have always been people created like me because we serve an important role of connection in human culture.

“In societies that are rigidly binary, rituals of gender crossing remind us of our continuous common humanity.”   That’s been my anchor since I first heard it said by anthropologist Anne Bolin in 1994.

While that is a sensible and powerful anchor for me, I don’t find that it keeps me anchored well when I don’t have explicit, focused work to do.   This is a problem because it means I am not ready to do the work that comes along in everyday life, not able to be present in a comfortable and assured way.

Where I am most unanchored is not in my trans expression, it is in my essential, sharp humanity.

When we are young, we create strategies to handle the challenging assaults we face.   Those strategies are not considered, though, not build in context, so they can end up being more draining that empowering, more ballast than anchor.

My family was not encouraging, not affirming, not empowering to me.   My common name in the house for years was “Stupid,” at least until the therapist told my parents to cut that out.

Like most boys, my value was not seen in my special grace and beauty but rather in what I could and should do to serve.   I was seen as a human doing rather than a human being.  This is reflected in the first post on this blog, from 13 years ago now.

My anchor in trans expression is in doing, in the work I have been called to do.

It isn’t, though, in being.   Just being trans in the world feels indulgent, selfish, an in-your-face kind of challenge that just isolates me, calling me to wear the kind of social armour queers are heir to in a world where reality is expected to be compliant and binary.

To do, my anchor can be abstract, conceptual and cerebral.

To be, though, my anchor must be emotional, celestial and bright.

That’s not at all easy to do with no deep anchor in my own beauty.   My anchor became doubt, questioning why I was so intense, so fluid, so queer and so irritating & offensive to others, including my own mother.

Questions are powerful and magical in their own way, but so is the simple act of confident presence, in trusting our own nature.

My endless search to find an anchor that lets me be comfortable and assured simply being in the world still is a quest for something that escapes me.

Then again, I’m not from Gallifrey, rather just an human.

Playing Alone

“Have you ever found people to play with you?” she asked, following a support group we facilitated where I had brought out my inner Southern Belle, going all Sugarbaker to talk about the importance of play to discover our shadow selves.

“You must have played alone a great deal as a child,” echoed in my mind, asked by a gal with whom I took a course in early childhood development in my freshman year of college.

Telling my sister about the question, she immediately understood.  “No, you never had a group to play with,” she remembered, reflecting on a lifetime.

From its beginning in 2005, the tagline on this blog has been “The Loneliness of a Long-Lost Tranny.”    That loss and the resulting loneliness comes from one place,  a deficit of mirroring which directly comes from the lack of safe play pals, of people who not only get the joke but affirm and extend it.

If you invest enough time and effort, some say, others will catch up to you, creating understanding and connection.   This only works, though, if you stay fixed, offering a point they can find.   I am unable to stay still, though — always hopping — which also means the distance to my viewpoint is a moving target.   My continuing creative play is always exploring, always enlightening, always expanding & renewing my vision.

I love entering the stories of others, sensing our shared world through their experiences, their own eyes, ears and hearts.   This is the way I gain a wider view, engaging the surprises of other voices, other visions.

Yet I have been unable to get a clear understanding of my own possibilities through this engagement.   When I walk in the world, I don’t know how I am seen, of how I can express myself in new and graceful ways with confidence and assurance.   The lack of mirroring drives me to silence & avoidance, falling back on old patterns rather than trusting that my own blossoming is visible and beautiful.   Assurance fails me, so I go back to the strategy I learned so very long ago when I was so very young, playing alone.

Taking care of others, reflecting them from my concierge role comes by habit, but being cared for beyond what I know is seen as my own intense, overwhelming and prickly nature, just isn’t in my experience.   People grow and heal in their own time, focusing on their own challenges, not being able to enter mine.

My play is always queer, not just repeating patterns but searching for new.   I need the surprising, the witty, the cutting.   Exploring is play for me, creating beyond expectation.   “Make Me Laugh, Think or Come” said the old t-shirt, and while I have had to pass on one of those options, that makes me more passionate about the other two.

Playing stops me from fitting neatly into some predetermined role, instead staying liminal, in the doorways which offer connection.   It is that play which kept me alive and aware, even when the world — and my family — seemed to want to crush me.

I couldn’t easily play with the boys or with the girls, and couldn’t play with others who couldn’t understand my family experience.

Not having anyone to play with, though, has left me very alone, profoundly lonely and a bit lost.

We each need someone to back our play, to play straight,to throw a flag on the play, guiding us back into safer spaces.     The sparks off interactions open us up, melting our fears and taking into new possibilities.

Not having those kinds of people, I tend to stay as invisible as possible, simply pulling on jeans and polo shirts.  We costume ourselves for other people, identity, competence, attraction and more coming into play, but if you aren’t going to engage others, don’t think they will play nicely with you, well, why bother going to all that trouble?

My play tends to be cerebral and creative more than being routine or physical.    Finding an audience for that kind of play is hard, but finding someone who can enter that world, share and expand it, someone to play with is much, much harder.   Relying that someone else will be there, a co-conspirator, a fellow cast member, a playmate, is important to trusting your heart enough to take risks of exposure and creation.

Stories are much more powerful when they are shared, held in trust between people rather than just questioned as solitary thoughts.  Together, they become dreams, real and remembered, with someone else to remind you of them when you forget or when your faith just slips a little bit.   Tossing energy back and forth always multiplies it, while trying to hold onto it alone just leaves it wilted, diminished and eventually corrupted.

In the glow of shared tales we can emerge from behind our individualized armour, knowing that we are not alone and lost, ready to be picked on.   Sunlight bounces, growing healthy in a way that hiding in the darkness never can.

When we hold conventional beliefs, standard expectations, commercial needs and assimilated rules, our play is constrained by social norms.   Like any marginalized person, I understand the regular dreams, but they never met my needs or desires.   I can enter that mindset, but only with the effort of an outsider, while insiders usually can’t even fathom why anyone would want anything other than the feeling of safety being comfortably normative offers them.

Did I play alone a lot as a kid?  Yes.   Have I ever found a group of people to play with?   No.

Does that leave me feeling long lost and lonely?   Hell yes.

I know that I need reinvention, rebirth to get me back into social roles which offer rewards, the practical, emotional and intellectual rewards that come from sharing my gifts with others.   The vacuum I exist in does not offer me the energy that comes from sharing stories and possibilities, from playful enthusiasm and exploration.

It’s just that after decades of trying, I still don’t know how to find those committed, energetic and understanding playmates.

The Kindness Of Queerness

How do you want to be loved?

Do you want to be cast in some typical romance, following the stories that explain how relationships should be, meeting the kind of social expectations that bring status?

Or do you want your heart, your mind and your nature to be seen, valued and adored, facing shared challenges with the best solutions you all can muster, delivering personal satisfaction?

Would you rather have the comfort of the conventional, the known, the routine or the intimate thrill of the revelatory, innovative and deep?

Queer, to me, is the commitment to boldly honour individual spirits, natures, hearts over the assumptions & expectations of convention.   It is a commitment that  I make everyday.

Queer is love.   That makes the queer view of others laden with possibility, with the possibility of change, of transformation, of mastery, of transcendence.  When you love another you value the emergence of their unique gifts as right and powerful.   Being committed to supporting the growth and healing of another loves who they are, not how they fulfill the role you have assigned to them.

If I want others to see me as an individual, allowing me space for emergence and finding my own power, I have to do the same for them.   That’s the queer golden rule, not doing towards others what I would find hateful.   It may be a pain in the ass to hold open the possibility of transformation, but if I want them to be like Shaw’s tailor, measuring me anew each time they meet me, I have to do the same for them.

Many understand that queer is about embracing Eros, the desire inside of you, but they see that desire only in a conventional and mass-market way.   Simply fornication, indulging the sensationalism of sensuality for pleasure, does not embrace the depth of Eros.   As the lives of many artists reveal, exploring Eros is the exploration of passion, understanding our own drives and using them as a part of divine creation.   Intimacy comes not just in the body, as heterosexist tropes will tell you, but also in the heart, the mind and in the creative spark.   Exploring all those facets opens us up to the connections which can power and expand life.

The kindness of queerness means that you value unique hearts over valuing their status or your fear.   Mr. Rogers was very queer in this way, no matter how conventional and routine his own presence was, revealing that queer expression, the attempt to show ourselves beyond convention, isn’t required for queer engagement.   Simply shouting at someone is rarely the best way to discover and encourage their own unique gifts and instead may be just part of your own defence mechanism.

As every kid knows, one of the kindest and most challenging things anyone can do is hold high expectations for you.   On one hand, those expectations are by definition hard to meet, demanding you work hard and stretch yourself, but on the other hand they hold precious belief in your essential value, power and beauty.   Moving beyond comfort is never easy, but making better, more considered, more polished and more precise choices is the only way to grow.

The kindness I offer is the kindness I struggled to find growing up.   I needed others to see and affirm my heart, not just to be angry when I didn’t meet their expectations and overwhelmed when I showed what they thought was too much of my own nature, my own Eros.

Those who want to blossom tend to appreciate my attention, while those who are resisting their own queerness, who are struggling to stay fixed, find it, well, just too damn intense and queer.   They wish I would just shut up and play a more quiet, conventional role, unable to offer the kindness of queerness to me.

Supporting playful, energetic exploration is at the heart of my kindness.   Only humour and wit can really lubricate the soul, allowing us to see the warm and funny bits even as we struggle.  An ambulance crew in Queensland stopped on while taking a dying man to hospice to buy him a McDonald’s caramel sundae; the kindness of a childlike treat a gift in their professional day. 

Being too playful, though, irks many who want to show a serious face.   A key question in LGBT communities (and LGBT lives) is “How queer is too queer?   How queer is not queer enough?”   Where should we appear to honour and respect convention, staying constrained, and where should we be transgressive,  breaking rules to claim individual expression?

I know that many find me too damn queer, asking too many damn questions.   In the 1990s I first labelled myself a “Power Femme/Drag Mom/Trans Theologian” (I’d say Trans Shaman now), and that drew flak even then.   How could I be a femme and anything else?   Don’t those identities negate themselves?

What I know is that those are the identities people respond to in me, for good and for bad.

What connects them all, for me, are two things: queerness and kindness.   I believe in the emerging power of the acorn born inside of us, how it can grow and blossom when we let it, and believe that the way that acorn finds fertile ground is in kindness, especially the kindness that challenges us to open our minds and hearts to do better.

How do you want to be loved?

I know that I want to be loved not as a human doing, for the role you believe I should play, but as a human being, full and tender with a precious heart.   That kind of love takes deep sight and an even deeper commitment to kindness, creating safe spaces not just for indulgence and isolation, but also for the promise of growth beyond boundaries and beyond fear.

Queer, to me, is the commitment to boldly honour individual spirits, natures, hearts over the assumptions & expectations of convention.   It is a commitment that  I make everyday.

To me, it is the essence of kindness.


I am a travel writer.

Sure, most of my journeys may be shamanic, exploring the great inner realm, but they are trips none the less.

When I go places, I write a note from there and tuck it into a safe, leaving it for other travellers to find.   It may help them find bits they might have missed, seeing in a different way so that we can both share a vision of our stops.   It may suggest other destinations or may just offer a bit of language which codifies and clarifies, for me, for them, for others.

The episodic nature of my writing means that there is no simple path through it.   We don’t all start at the same place, don’t all have the same list of destinations, so trying to follow in a linear manner may well mean you catch me speaking of things you haven’t yet experienced, things that are still off your awareness.

If you aren’t a traveller, though, not on a personal journey of exploration, play and awe, well, my words not only won’t make sense, they may be downright irritating.

People who work hard to stay stable, for status, for family, for fear or for any other reason often try to silence me.   They believe that I don’t understand why they tenaciously hold on to what they value, why they have stayed rooted and fixed for what they know are very good reasons.

They then use the same techniques they have used to resist engaging change, to avoid swinging the pendulum wide, to not open to challenge and examine their choices to remove my standing.    They fight for the status quo, work to avoid opening and exposure, create sympathy for the abject, broken, silent victims.

My work is to help people on their own personal journey.   I empower kids to believe in themselves and take agency in their lives.  I assist seekers in facing the blocks they hold which keep them from joy and power, suggesting that miracles are just new ways of seeing with heart and love rather than with ego and fear.  I offer glimpses beyond and encourage others to dive into the scary, the unknown, moving beyond their own pain and imposed limits to claim authentic actualization.   It is only in the light that anything can grow strong and healthy.

Much of this means removing the cloaks we use to hide ourselves, our desires, our choices and our fears.   Anonymity is only useful as a path to exposure; if it doesn’t help us feel free to show our deeper selves, it just provides camouflage for the ways we work to sabotage growth and enlightenment.

Travel demands abandon, leaving behind our expectations and preconceptions to see with new eyes.   The magic of inner travel is seeing the same place in a different way, opening our vision to what has always been around us but that we have been blind to.    Moving from negative vision, identifying what is different, what is wrong and what we should reject, to positive vision, seeing similarities, new possibilities and beautiful facets that were once hidden is at the heart of the experience of enlightenment.

There are all kinds of journeys.  Mothers help their kids on a journey which requires taking a different one for themselves.  Some travel in time or distance by reading.  Art can help you travel, putting yourself into works of expression.  Service is can be a journey, entering different worlds and learning how to understand and care for people.  Anytime you strive for mastery and the essential transformation that always comes along with it, you are on a journey.

I know why people stay stuck, not entering the conversation.  After all, the experience of the closet, which most LGBT people of my generation share, is the essence of denial, the attempt to stay looking normative and appearing to follow the rules and expectations of those we care about.   Even now when there is growing acceptance, many of us work harder to be “good,”  fitting in and assimilating, than to be wild, true to our own unique and powerful heart.

“You may well be correct,” I would reply in the days I was trying to stay stuck, “but you certainly don’t expect me to agree, do you?”    Agreeing would mean I would have to change my choices but I was not yet ready to do that.

Instead, I was a Balloon Burster, trying to help people by pointing out where their dreams were just unrealistic.    I knew that the point of many trans support groups was to vent a little of the passion and be reminded that we had to fit into normativity or be destroyed.    If you couldn’t pass, you couldn’t be a success in the world, because out and trans was only for the young and pretty.

Now, I have travelled enough to know those assumptions are not true.   You can own your own nature and be very effective in society.   People who still find the need to dismiss others, their accomplishments and dreams, are saying more about their own fears & beliefs than about the truth of a diverse and brilliant world.

Everybody grows and heals in their own way and in their own time.  I needed to grow and heal by opening to the lessons of the journey, being present enough to learn from conversations that challenged my choices.   Where I stumbled, felt pain and anger, I knew there was a lesson there, a jewel I had to excavate and own for myself.

I am the only person that I can directly help heal and grow.   That journey to awareness has been very hard, much of it helped by expressing myself in writing, creating a rough kind of art that helps me consolidate what I am feeling, see my own interior life and make better choices.   Choosing again is the only way we can make change in our lives and in our world.

When my words can help other travellers find their own growth and healing, I am pleased that I can share my gift.   They will never think and feel exactly like me, will always have their own unique view shaped by their own unique journey, but we can find points of sharing & connection inside our shared continuous common humanity.

When people find the need to resist engaging what I offer, writing it off as crackpot noise, not searching for shared meaning, I know that their reaction reveals a great deal about where they are, about the challenges they face in moving beyond the comforting walls which offer blocks to them.   Holding the us versus them, the me versus you separations, defensive, fearful and small, is where they need to be right now.

Travellers know that being willing to explore beyond comfort is the only way to find new insights and connections, finding the empowerment and passion which lies beyond what we hold as normative & proper.  Resisting & sabotaging change, in our own life or in the wider world, may seem to keep us stable but it denies us the life lessons offered, revealing where growth and healing can bring rich rewards.

I am a travel writer, at home with other travellers.   For me, that just means I open to the queer in the world, the unique individual gifts which open my eyes, my mind and my heart.

Silence Is Not Safety

“There is no safe space for trans people.  There is only safer space.”
— Alexandra Billings

You cannot join into the conversation until the conversation exists.

I was along for the ride as a father drove his eighth grade daughter to one of her first boy-girl parties.

“Golly gee, learning to date was so hard,” I said to him.  “What was the name of your first girlfriend?” I asked.  He answered, so I continued to ask other questions, like what kind of kid he was — a jock, maybe? — and what type of girls he dated.

By this time, a head was peering out from between the front seats.  Soon enough, she was asking questions of her own about his early dating experiences.   After all, this was the man she knew best, studying him all her life, so the tales of who he was in junior high and who he dated was interesting to her.

After we dropped her at her friend’s house, he turned to me and thanked me.  She didn’t know that he had earlier spoken of the challenge of talking to his daughter about dating, about how to start on the topic.

You talk about dating like it’s normal, (1997)” I told him.  “She doesn’t want to be drilled about questions she doesn’t yet know the answer to, but she does want to have a conversation about topics that interest her, that she is thinking about.   Right now, she doesn’t understand dating, doesn’t even know what she wants to ask, but she is ready to hear stories, even if she reserves the right to roll her eyes at them, as any daughter gets to roll her eyes at her parent, staying cool.”

You cannot join into the conversation until the conversation exists.

When you are searching for ways to understand the mysterious, even the mysteries within your own heart, first you need to hear the stories of others, need to listen to the conversations around you.    That’s why so many of us remember the first time we heard discussion about transgender topics; until then we had no language for the feelings we had deep inside.

Groups like AA understand this process.   Until you hear people share their stories, opening up a conversation that puts words to thoughts and feelings, you cannot join the conversation

Society understands this process, too.   By casting topics out of bounds, calling them rude or sick or perverted or unacceptable or whatever, they are cut out of “polite” conversation.   If those topics do not exist in conversation but instead are shielded in silence, then the good, the righteous, the appropriate — the children — are protected from what is defined as queer, immoral and threatening.

Shameful is what no decent person would speak about.   Silence is the affirmation of shame.

This is the power of silence, making conversation about what we hold inside unsafe.    We learn to be silent, learn to shut up, learn to police ourselves, creating commercial understandings rather than organic ones. 

From the moment we figure out that there are parts of us which are dangerous to reveal, we start being aware of unsafe spaces.

You cannot join into the conversation until the conversation exists.   Bringing vibrant conversations into the world may be the hardest thing any of us can do, because what we share is just heard as noise, just erased, until the conversation exists.

The courage to put our life into words, even the scary bits we want to avoid or bury, is always the beginning of conversation.   When we make that conversation exist, bold and bright, we invite people to join with us, to disclose and exchange, lifting the hidden so we can sort the scattered from the sacred.

If silence is safety, we are taught to be silent.   Shouldn’t we teach each other to be bold, ready to have each other’s back?   Shouldn’t we be the mirrors which help other people find language and ideas that help them understand themselves, help them affirm themselves, help them empower themselves?

The explicit opens the path to truth, building trust, starting with trust in our own nature.

Do you understand me?  am i getting through to you?  are you taking any of this on-board?   are you ignoring, resisting or rejecting the gifts i am struggling to offer?

I'm not enough.  I'm not enough of the good stuff.   I'm too much of the bad stuff.  let me kill off the bad, the evil, the erotic, the queer, let me silence the shitty parts of me so i can be good, so i can be who you want me to be, so i can be someone you can love.

do i scare you mommy?  am I too much daddy?  is my vibrant, vigorous play baffling?  too noisy, too loud, too many questions

let me consume the silence so i an be acceptable to you mommy, so i can make you proud daddy, so you can love me like the tender child of God i am.

if i am silent enough, will you be there for me, caring for me, supporting me, trusting me, loving me?  will you protect me so i have trust and room to grow, having my back and keeping me safe?

but if i have to learn to silence myself, fearing my own outbursts, my own intensity, my own passion, my o/wn heart, can I be there for myself, caring for me, supporting me, trusting me, loving me?

Who will trust my heart?

Discretion erases queer. Conventional assumptions have always hurt us.

It turns out that Act Up was always right.   Silence == Death.

Our safety is in speaking out.   Conversation == Life.

You cannot join into the conversation until the conversation exists.