U-Turn: a UU transman ponders sex, spirituality, and the power of stories

As a kid growing up in the post-Vatican-II Catholic Church, I was lucky enough to be exposed to the music of singer/songwriter Ray Repp. I learned it from recordings and from sheet music, sang and played it in church (I was a guitarist in our Sunday-service Youth Folk Group), and went to live concerts to hear Ray himself play and sing it. Like every prolific composer, Ray had his hits and his flops. But the best of his music still resounds in my soul, calling me to remember what’s most important in this world. Where there is hatred and pain Where there is sorrow and shame And everyone we know agrees there’s nothing more to gain Where there is anger and fear And where the darkness is near There let me bring in my love Ray was really big on the idea of making positive change in the world, and seeing ourselves as the vehicles of that change. While so many religious composers praised the wonders of that Heavenly City that supposedly awaits us, Ray seemed to be more of the opini...

So this past week I rediscovered an old love - juggling. To be more precise: it’s not the juggling that I’ve rediscovered... it’s the love. I’ve tried to reclaim it multiple times over the last ten years or so, knowing that I badly needed more exercise. I’ve picked up my old toys maybe once a year to try and see if I could find the magic again. Last time I made a particularly hard effort to get my ass in gear and get into the habit of it, for my health. But the joy just wasn’t there for me; it felt like a chore that I was too tired to do. Dammit, it used to be such fun throwing things around (and around, and around)! But those feelings seemed locked behind a wall somewhere; the spark just wouldn’t catch. This time, it did. I’m not sure why, but this past week when I picked up my old heavy balls - a pound apiece, solid in the hands, made for juggling as an upper body exercise - suddenly the spark was there. The joy of feeling my body once more as being strong and sure and quick and ...

Singing is much on my mind today. And singing, for me, has always been tied in with issues of gender and the experience of outsider-ness, because, as an extremely low-voiced biological female, I have always sung in a nonstandard vocal range. Unless you yourself are a singer with a similar problem, the above statement probably has little meaning or impact for you. But it kept me from doing any kind of vocal ensemble singing - which is one of the great loves of my life - for nearly half of my life. If you have ever sung in a choir or other vocal ensemble, you probably know that there are four standard “voice parts” or ranges: Soprano, Alto, Tenor, and Bass.  Soprano and Alto are female voice ranges; Tenor and Bass are male voice ranges. This fourfold system of voice division is so common that sheet music written for a full choir is often simply labeled “SATB.” Like most aspects of music, this is much more about tradition than it is about reason. At the deepest roots of music, c...

Oh. My. God. Today (or maybe a couple of yesterdays ago, by the time you read this) I finally got the blessing from my doctor - or rather, from the specialist that my doctor consulted - to begin taking testosterone. Up until now, I have very carefully proceeded as if I knew that this permission would come, while secretly being terrified that it would not. (Cardiac troubles can be a deal-breaker, and I’ve got them - congestive heart failure, which in brief simply means that my pump doesn’t work as well as it should, thus causing a host of other problems). I’ve done it this way because I needed to move boldly forward, to choose to honor my own truth regardless of what outside authorities might declare about how far I would be allowed to pursue it. Because otherwise, it’s an easy step back into that closet - that miserable, dark, tiny, cramped, soul-sucking, safe and comfortable closet. And I have a history of ~almost~ stepping out of dark places... or rather, of stepping out and th...

So last week my doctor called just to reassure me that she had not forgotten me. My file was on her desk, she told me, and a call in to an endocrinologist, regarding how to safely proceed with hormone therapy despite my ongoing health issues. I was still recovering from that nasty sinus bug, and the call had happened to wake me from an extra-late sleep, so I was a little fuzzy, but I remember she said something like, “I feel strongly that we can move forward with this.” I truly appreciated the call, and her encouraging statement about moving forward - even though the immediate content of the conversation was that I’m still basically in a holding pattern. I mostly keep this issue out of my everyday consciousness. I try not to dwell on it, or worry much about it. But there’s an undercurrent of tension that continues to swirl quietly around it, way out there in the background. I can handle waiting... but there’s still and always the fear that “Wait” will turn into “No” at some point. ...

Still catching up from my three-plus weeks of illness (gah), but aiming to get back on a regular schedule now (crossing fingers). Was it Jubal Harshaw who, if he didn’t write, got “spiritually constipated”? I forget. Anyway... I think I’ll write a bit. This world takes a lot of digesting! A few folks here and there have asked me “technical” questions about the phenomenon of being Transgender. It’s easy for me to forget, considering my lifelong fascination with issues of sex and gender, that this is a sort of esoteric knowledge, in its way - widely available, but not widely familiar. So tonight, I’ll take a stab at actually explaining some of the technical stuff. (And please forgive the Rocky Horror quote in the title... you’ll soon see why it was irresistible!) The most important thing to understand is that being Trans is now understood to be a physical and physiological problem, not a psychological one. (Though it can certainly cause its share of psychological problems, including ...

So this past week I’ve been ill with a really nasty bug - hence the skipped installment. Hence, also, the fact that I ended up unexpectedly being home for part of the “Dancing With The Stars” season premiere... an unplanned bright stop in my truly awful week. So I figure I'll start there, as I attempt to write something meaningful and understandable in the midst of my fever-dreams and coughing fits. I’m a fan of ballroom dance. I’ve been intrigued by it since I was a kid. And one of the things that make it so fascinating (besides the fact that it’s simply amazing to watch, when done with great skill) is that it’s one of the most highly gendered art forms around. In fact it might almost be described, with some accuracy, as being basically an artistic portrayal of gender relationships - albeit largely those of a previous century. I didn’t have words for it, as a kid, but I always knew which half of the duo I identified with. When Danny Kaye swept Vera Ellen off the dance floor ...