LGBTQ Literature is a Readers and Book Lovers series dedicated to discussing literature that has made an impact on the lives of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people. From fiction to contemporary nonfiction to history and everything in between, any literature that touches on LGBTQ themes is welcome in this series. LGBTQ Literature posts on the last Sunday of every month at 7:30 PM EST. If you are interested in writing for the series, please send a message to Chrislove.
The life of the transgender...is many things. It is sad, and it is sweet...and sometimes, it is bittersweet. It is struggle and strife...it is courage and determination. It is many things, all at the same time. It is sometimes marked with profound loss, and other times with unexpected gain...it is joy and sadness, and so many other things...it is not a journey that can be described, only experienced. But I shall try, as best I can, though my words and poetry….to describe it to those who are not on this life journey I am on. And it is a journey...one without end, actually. It is pain and loss, sorrow and seeking...and it is also a joy that is beyond anything most people ever experience. So there’s a lot mixed up in there.
So, I will start, in this diary, with loss, as we are just beyond the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR). In 2001, I lost a dear person to me. Terrianne was my transmom. I looked up to her. She taught me a lot of things, including how to fight. I was blessed to know her, and the time we knew each other was far too short. It ended in a single gunshot to the head on Dec 11, 2001. Terrianne was dead in her own driveway, and her killer, to this day, has not been identified...much less apprehended.
Terrianne was on 2002’s TDOR list, as her death happened after the 2001 TDOR. She now lives only in my memory...and in the cold case files of the Jacksonville (FL) Police Department, in which she is misgendered. Even in murdered death, they could not give her the dignity she, and so many of us, are denied in life. I wrote the following poem in her honor. It was the first poem of mine ever published (other than my own self-publishing). It appears as the opening screen in a documentary film “Just Another Dead Transwoman.” It was used in that film, with my permission.
Say Their Names
Say their names, my sisters and brothers taken
They the ones society has forsaken
In life nor death given consideration
They come from around the world, every nation
Their entire lives, denied humanity
When will we see the end of insanity?
What if we cared less about their chromosomes
And welcomed them into our lives and homes?
What if, instead of showing them scorn and hate
We allowed them in life to participate?
Maybe if we said their names while still alive
Maybe if they were given a chance to thrive
Maybe if in life their value not denied
We'd not have to say their names when they have died
From a very early age, I knew I was different. Not different as in unusual, but different...in that I did not feel the things everyone around me seemed to think I felt, I did not like the things people around me thought I should like, etc. I was no good at sports, and so I hated them. Boys in the neighborhood always played sports, or engaged in other sorts of play I found to be not fun...in the same way any kid with glasses hates dodgeball. I was always last picked for teams.
One year, I even played Little League baseball. My parents signed me up...I didn’t have a choice. When I wasn’t keeping the bench warm, they stuck me way out in right field and prayed like hell nobody would hit the ball anywhere near me...a prayer I shared, by the way. I got on base one time that season, when I was hit by a pitch. I cried all the way down to first base. The coach looked at me, disgusted, and said “You shoulda been born a girl.” I had all I could do to not say, “I know.”
I was often a loner as a child. My older brother wanted nothing to do with me...and it wasn’t till many years later I found what a blessing that was! No, I spent my afternoons, either down at Mrs. Bennett’s house — she was an old lady in the neighborhood that I liked...and she had a little Pomeranian named Smokey — or hanging, as much as I could, with the neighborhood girls. That was where I was happiest, doing latch hook rugs, needlepoint, double-dutch...I was good at these things and they were fun. I hated when they wanted to play “house” though, because they always wanted me to be Daddy, and I did not want to be Daddy. But I played along, so that I could hang with them doing the other things I did enjoy.
At this age, my thoughts were not, “I want to be a girl.” My thoughts were, “Why is everyone trying to make me be a boy?” I did not know anything much about the differences, physically, and I sure as hell knew nothing of adult relations! The girls my age...looked like me...except that they often wore dresses and had long hair. I wanted them, too. I was not blind, I could see my mom had something upstairs that my dad did not...but I always assumed I’d grow up to be like mom.
Every summer, I went to camp. There is no place on Earth that is more hell for a young transgender person than summer camp, it is possibly the most sex-segregated place you could ever be in. This being the 1970’s and the era of “self-esteem” BS...everyone got a blue ribbon at the end of summer camp. I would see girls getting things like Best Hopscotch, Most Beautiful Voice, and so on, where I’d see boys getting things like Home Run King, Best Wrestler, etc. Mine was always “Best Vocab.” And I always had to explain to the other kids what that was, since they did not have a vocab!
Almost every boy or man I knew as a child was mean, a bully...few men in my life to ever admire or aspire to be, including my father. But I wanted his approval. I just wanted it in a way he would never give.
Daddy’s Little Girl
Born was I, in Illinois
Daddy thought, his little boy
My true self forced forever to hide
Feelings inside could not be denied
Daddy lost not thru death but rejection
Failed to live up to his expectation
Seething anger made me blind
Vowed never to look behind
Brokenhearted by his rebuff
Made my way resolved to be tough
Never could forgive him for my pain
Never to see my Daddy again
April the first, Daddy died
No one more surprised than I
When at his deathbed I cried
Daddy hooked up to tubes and wires
No longer could hold anger's fires
This is the moment we must seize
Daddy, forgive and love me please
He took my hand and gave a squeeze
Daddy's Little Girl I wanted to be
Twenty minutes was all the time had we
It took me seventeen years after his death...before I could write this one. It took me that long to find just the right words...to express what I felt about my dad. It took me that long to understand the tears I cried at his deathbed...were not for the death of my dad...but for the death of possibilities. All that could have been, and now never would be.
I still remember, a month before his death, I landed a new job. I was living, by then, in Louisville, KY — and had been Angela full-time for the last three years. One day, shortly after I got hired, I was out at the butt hut with some co-workers, on break, smoking...and we got talking about our families. I remember saying that, if I got word back from Pennsylvania that my father had died...I would go back to Pennsylvania...just to make sure he was really dead. I did not know then...just how soon I would have to eat those words. Words spoken in anger. Words that wound and that kill.
I had, at this time in my life, cut off all communication with my parents. Mom did not accept me then — but I held out hope for her...and I had a pager...which she had the number to, in case she really needed me for something. She had that number with the understanding my father was never to get it. You see, before I moved to Kentucky, I lived twenty miles away from my parents. I lived in a boarding house. I had to disconnect my phone answering machine, because my father would constantly call and leave disgusting messages in a falsetto voice, on my machine. I used Caller ID, then a new thing...to return phone calls I wanted to return. So my father started calling my lawyer, my landlady...everyone he could think of to try to get at me.
Well, in Kentucky, I was living in the home of a 79 year old woman I was caretaking for...and I did not want her harassed by my father, so I cut him off. He only knew I was living in Louisville...he did not know who with, and he had no address, phone number, or any other way to contact me. In Kentucky, I literally was Driving Miss Daisy. I still think of Janet whenever I see that movie. Like Daisy and Hoke...Janet and I were embattled at the beginning...but, at the end, she was like a second mom to me...and I, the daughter she never had.
So, one day at work, my pager went off. And I saw the phone number was one I did not recognize, but it was a Pennsylvania area code...the one adjacent to where my parents lived — and we were on a border with area codes. I got this cold feeling...and I did not want to return the call...but I did. I reached my mother...at Pocono Medical Center. I was informed that my father was in the ICU, and not expected to make it. He had cirrhosis, jaundice and Hepatitis C.
I went to my boss, and he told me to get out there...I had three days. Well, being as this was Easter weekend, I actually had six days in total. So I got in the car and headed back to Pennsylvania. For some reason, I turned on the radio. I do not know why...normally, on a long trip like this, I would have put in a CD...but I put on the radio. And it was as if the song was there, just for me. On the radio, Mike And The Mechanics were singing “In The Living Years.” I had to pull over the car, I was crying that bad. And I could no longer hold the anger I had for my father.
I made it back to Pennsylvania before he died...and went to see him the next day, in the hospital...all hooked up with tubes and wires...and I forgave him everything he had done to hurt me. I asked him to forgive me anything I had done to hurt him (I never considered my transition something that needed to be forgiven) By this time...he could only answer “yes” and “no” questions, by a hand squeeze...once for yes, and twice for no. He squeezed my hand. And then did not let go. He died twenty minutes later...still holding my hand. And I cried. Later, I understood that what I was crying for was all that was now lost and never would be. I had always wanted to be Daddy’s Little Girl...and now it never would be — though we had those twenty minutes. It should have been twenty years. But both of us were too stubborn and too prideful. And it really is too late, when we die...to admit we don’t see eye to eye. But I cherish those twenty minutes.
Loss is something we trans know intimately. When we become true to ourselves...we often lose our jobs, our homes, and our families. We find out who our true friends are. They are the ones that stand by us. We also lose our illusions, and the blinds are ripped from our eyes...and we see how superficial most of this world is...built on bullshit constructs and social expectancy. And we build new families from among those blood family that remain loyal to us, friends that have stood by us, and some new people we meet in the trans community...and beyond.
Today, I have a blended family such as this...and some who were blood family are no longer a part of my family. We define family differently than other people. For us, family are those who will stand with us, no matter what. Who will not turn from us, and upon whom we can rely — and in turn, can rely on us to be there when they need it.
Echo In The Wind
An echo in the wind
Screaming her every word
Wanting only to be heard
Is it really so absurd?
A girl without a home
Fights her internal war
Beaten, battered, bruised and sore
Is there really nothing more?
A spirit without form
Three and twenty years grown
In a body not her own
For what sin must she atone?
An actress on a stage
Her life has been so cursed
Will every day just get worse
Her every move rehearsed?
Heart yearning to be free
Her self for all to see
Or will she forever be
Just an echo in the wind?
As you may have noticed, by the words in this poem...it was written many years before I published it. It was probably the first good poem I ever wrote. I first shared this with my former Creative Writing teacher at my ten-year high school reunion. I had almost failed Creative Writing. And I remember something this teacher told me...when I was fifteen. Though it now has been thirty five years, I still remember what he said to me that day, because his words were true...though, at the time, I did not know it.
He told me, at the time, “I cannot teach you Creative Writing. I can teach you form, style, grammar, punctuation...but I can’t teach you to write creatively. You either have it or you don’t. I think you do. I also think there is another voice, down deep inside you...one you are afraid to listen to. Until you listen to that voice, you will never write creative — or accomplish anything else meaningful in your life.” He was right. I should mention, he was a Hopi Indian, and I found out, at our ten-year, that he was also a two-spirit. He saw right through me, even at fifteen. I still consider him among the best teachers I ever had.
Another of those who stood by me, and whom today I consider a sister, was Amy J. Now, the first thing you want to know about Amy...is that she is the girl who took my male virginity. She got me drunk. It happened right in the public park, on a picnic table, in Allentown. It didn’t work out well. And Amy, frustrated as hell, asked me what she could do to make it work...and I could not answer her then.
We reconnected years later, in 2005, when I moved back to Pennsylvania. And she just looked at me in amazement. “Is this why it didn’t work for us back then??” We ended up going out that night, and she actually borrowed a dress from me! She stood by me. I could not believe it...and I asked her why. She told me that I had never seemed happy before, and that now, I was. She told me she’d always wanted me to be happy...and was always upset because nothing she could do would make me happy.
In 2014, my mother and I moved to North Carolina. She had lost both her jobs in the economic downturn following the housing bust in 2008. Since my father had died, in 1999, she worked two jobs, trying to keep the house. Dad had left her nothing...no life insurance, no mortgage insurance...just a pile of bills. My mom was strong. Still is. I like to think I get much of the strength I have today...from her. We had repaired our relationship after my father’s death, and in 2005, I moved in with her, back in Pennsylvania, after Hurricane Katrina about ruined me. I had nothing left but the clothes on my back, a few pieces of furniture, my car, and my dog. So when mom was in the position of losing the house, I told her...well, you always wanted to move south, for warmer weather, and we can’t stay here anymore...so we came to North Carolina...where we had vacationed for years.
I bought a mobile home here, and told my mom she had a home for life. It was the least I could do...she had taken me in when I had nothing. I came here with the intent of finally living out my life in peace and quiet, as the woman I had finally become...in a place where nobody knew my past. Instead, I ended up becoming this state’s first-in-history openly trans woman to run for State Legislature! Thus proving that life is what happens when you are busy making other plans!
I think, when I was a child, I got that cursed fortune cookie, the one that says “May you live in interesting times.” Well...my life has been many things, but "boring” has never been one of them!
Incidentally, I do not like the word “transition” for what we trans do. To the rest of the world, maybe, we are transitioning. To us...it is a BECOMING. Becoming what always was there. Many of us just starting...think that is the end of a long journey. It isn’t. It is just the beginning. The internal war, which raged for years...is over...and that internal war becomes external. It forces us to be strong. Life does not give us any other choice. I was horribly bullied as a child, and never once stuck up for myself. You could say that I never had balls...until I didn’t have balls!
I also don’t like the word “transgender.” That word did not even exist when I came out, the word then was “transsexual.” The term “transgender” came about because some wanted to get the word “sex” out of it, and because some felt “transsexual” was too exclusive. It’s not a word that is in vogue in our community, but it is one I still prefer for self-identification, because my GENDER never changed. My gender was always my gender, and it always was female. My SEX is what changed. So you may notice that, except in very rare cases, I always refer to myself as simply “trans,” because, for others it can mean “transgender” while, for me, it still means “transsexual.”
But, the journey never ends...it is an endless cycle of learning and unlearning — in fact, I’d argue it is more unlearning. Unlearning what has been beaten into our heads by society since we were born. The learning part...comes in learning to accept who we are, and that being different is okay. Learning to let go the inhibitions that have been built into us by societal expectancy.
Burning Day
Soaring high...beautiful, proud and bold
Feathers of red and yellow and gold
Flying high, soaring, forever free
Her only purpose, just to BE
Brave of heart, strong and true
But the day would come, she always knew
When all peace and joy and hope would die
And like Icarus, she’d fall from the sky
No longer soaring the sky so blue
Bold and beautiful, strong and true
Buried in a blanket of ashes soft and gray
Nobody wanted her on Burning Day
Yet from those ashes was she reborn
To grace the sky again next morn
Flying high, soaring, forever free
Her only purpose, just to BE
LGBTQ Literature Schedule (2021)
Hello, all—this is a note from the editor (Chrislove). I hope you enjoyed Kalisiin’s diary as much as I did. As you probably know, this is the last LGBTQ Literature diary for this year, since we are off in December. I am currently building the LGBTQ Literature schedule for the year 2021, and I would like to get as many slots filled as possible before January. If you are interested in taking a spot, please either comment below or send me a message. I am looking forward to seeing where this series will go in the coming year. Here is our 2021 schedule:
January 31: OPEN
February 28: OPEN
March 28: OPEN
April 25: OPEN
May 30: OPEN
June 27: OPEN
July 25: OPEN
August 29: OPEN
September 26: OPEN
October 31: OPEN
November 28: OPEN
December 26: OPEN
