One Year Ago…
I’ve made quite a few changes in the last year. I took a break from writing, I went back to writing. I went back to designing jewelry. I wrote a post on supporting one’s transgender friends wherein I self-identified as gender normative. People have died. Some people, including best friends and family members, might as well have died for the completeness with which they excised themselves from my life. For being the wrong religion (that was the first wave), for supporting my queer family members (that was the second wave) and, most recently, for coming out as queer, myself.
Although that last revelation wasn’t exactly a shocker to those closest to me, for everyone who actually uses their innate powers of discernment there are nine more who hear what they want to hear and see what they want to see. Which is why I think it’s probably a good thing, on the balance, to take time to “come out” once in awhile. As whatever you are. It can be dangerous, in certain environments, assuming that the “you” you know is the “you” your loved ones know–or, indeed, even want.
I do wonder if I’ve failed as an ally, in the sense of, I liked supporting the team so much that I joined it. Of course, some of us go far longer without realizing that our affinity for a certain group may run deeper than just really, really liking civil rights. “Gosh,” I used to wonder. “So many of my friends are queer. They seem to really understand my struggles in a way that some of my other friends just don’t.” Did this clue me in? No, not really. Social conditioning–especially what you’ve been taught to believe about yourself–can be a bitch to get over.
It took me a long time, too, to realize that being married to a man didn’t mean I had to turn in my queer card. I remember, years ago–in high school, actually–a friend came out and before I could stop myself I blurted, “I know.” He immediately wanted to know why, if I’d known, I hadn’t told him! A reaction I didn’t understand at the time but do now. I think we’d all–regardless of our orientation–be pleased as punch if validation just arrived, like an acceptance letter from Hogwart’s. You are this. You are wanted here. This is a place where people like you already are and with whom, even if you all hate each other, you can still be confident that you belong.
Found on the interwebz, proper credit needed.
Especially growing up in a cult conservative Christian environment, there’s such a strong focus on appearances. It’s “okay” (relatively speaking) if you’re gay, so long as you pass as straight. Plenty of people are closeted. So if you manage to successfully marry someone of the opposite sex there’s this sense of relief from your peers like, you made it. You jumped over that viper pit and landed safely on the other side. There’s really no room for, “but I also like women.”
Your identity is entirely circumscribed by what some random group of white men–and yes, they are all white and they are all men–have decided is “okay.” There’s no point in celebrating any aspect of yourself if you aren’t planning on acting on it, and since acting on it is a one way ticket to Hell why would you?
And forget trans. Or even gender nonconforming. Girls can’t even wear pants. Pants, just pants, are considered a dangerous foray into the masculine. Into the prohibited. Wear pants too often, and you might decide that you want to do something other than cook and clean.
So saying, even to yourself, not only do I want to wear pants, I don’t want to wear skirts is like OH MY GOD. At this point, my hair is an inch long all over my head. Plus green. A delightful mix of Manic Panic’s Atomic Turquoise and Enchanted Forest. You should try it sometime. I know perfectly well that however much I claimed to love Jesus, or wanted to get to know Him better (which I don’t, because I’m all set with Christianity, but this is a hypothetical situation), I wouldn’t be allowed into the building.
“I am going to remain married to this individual man, because I love this individual man and more than that, consider him my soulmate, but I am also going to cut off my hair and wear men’s clothes because, separate and apart from any relationship, that’s my identity” isn’t a thing in fundamentalist Christianity.
You have to, in essence, choose your “straight form” and then, making matters that much worse, ensure that “straight” comports with highly rigid, stereotype-based gender roles that have nothing to do with expressing your own individuality (which is sinful) and everything to do with proving that the church’s stance on marriage and family is correct. I’d say “antiquated,” but that wouldn’t be accurate. Because these ideas, and the fears behind them, are actually pretty recent.
A year ago, I wasn’t there yet. I’m still not there yet. But I’m a lot further along from where I was.
That love isn’t about genitals but about hearts is, sadly, something that many in my life have yet to learn.
It’s perhaps impossible to write romance, or write stories, however horrifying, with a romantic component and not consider these issues. But, by the same token, there’s only so much real life change a person can take before they’re forced to reevaluate.
A year ago, I was sitting in this spot, on this porch (although in a different chair), writing the first draft of The Prince’s Slave and wondering anxiously whether anyone would like The White Queen. Which was released last August 26. It’s a scary thing, a sequel.
Now, I’m working on The Black Prince. I think it’s some of my best writing to date. As a writer, you can’t help but see yourself in your work, see the chronology of your life played out in thousands of pages. Couplings, uncouplings, births and deaths and new chairs all influence your thought process. Each book is its own life form, sprung from a well deep inside that nothing can touch, but it’s also a record of daily existence. Like in Plato’s Cave, the ultimate truth of your story is brought into shareable consciousness through the medium of you, the writer. The imperfect, shadowed medium.
Ever changing.
Cheers to another year.
