‘The Human Package’
(22 Nov 18)
This seven-minutes video has been making the rounds:
The video finally made it to my Facebook feed last Saturday.
Please watch it. Post it to your own web-site, your Facebook page, and other social media and web-sites. Share it wherever, however you can.
This should be required viewing by all parents and grandparents – to be aware of their children and grandchildren.
School officials need to see the harm that they commit upon Trans students when they deny our rights to our personal dignity.
Never mind that the video includes holes during its seven minutes of story-line. That’s okay. The essence, message, ending is what is important.
I shared an intimate version of these comments with my close friend bestie. I might as well share a public version of these comments with everyone else in a public post.
Allow me to preface. I know that my family knows what I present to you today. These people will not be coming here:
- my sister Kathy – she doesn’t read here;
- both Mike and Rachael – they don’t visit here;
- cousins Gail, Carol, Bev – they don’t come to this page. Cousin brother Jack – he has not had much good for me since I used his bed as a trampoline;
- Cousin Nancy T – she sent Seventh Day Adventist conversion books to me in 1985, she disavowed my existence in 2015;
- Cousin Nancy B – she disowned me this past Summer;
- Uncle Jack – he sent a curious text message to me six months after I sought to re-connect with him.
There are few other family members to mention.
As an adoption, I have no idea who are my biological family. The mom and dad who raised me are long dead. Other than an odd communication from Kathy, I haven’t been part of any family for decades, haven’t heard much from them in decades. The last of it was 1993 – Aunt Pat deliberately un-invited me to our family Thanksgiving Day gathering. Curious timing – then and now.
Watching this video flooded me with memories. I sure wish that my parents could have been as this father in the story. What a difference!
It brought back that infamous afternoon and evening – it was the first Thursday of February 1971 – when I was in 9th Grade.
Remember. When I was younger, when I was first wearing Kathy’s clothes at age 3, my parents scolded me. It was not for wearing them. Nope. It was for taking something from Kathy without asking. Certainly an appropriate lesson in life.
But that was no longer the issue as I got older and I continued wearing Kathy’s clothes. It no longer mattered that I borrowed her clothes without her permission. The issue was that I was wearing her clothes.
My dad knew that I was wearing Kathy’s clothes when he was not home. We had frequent fights about it, he hit me for doing it. I had a sense to not do it in his presence. I had a real fear of danger to my life, especially at that time. You know the details – family recently murdered my Uncle Frank a few months earlier in 1970 during his Transition. I did not want to be next.
I usually returned home from school each day at about 3.30pm. I changed from my school clothes to Kathy’s clothes as soon as I arrived.
My dad typically did not arrive home til after I was in bed (10pm bedtime) because he attended college classes at the university after teaching at his school. This day would be one exception. My dad came home early – at 4pm – that February day.
I happened to go to the kitchen for some reason that I have lost in what would follow. Likely it was routine, maybe a glass of water or a snack before starting to do my homework. Jesuit school piles on the homework.
I casually happened to look outside the kitchen window. I saw the pick-up camper truck parked in front of our home. There was my dad walking up the driveway to the kitchen door entrance coming home unexpectedly early that fateful afternoon.
I made a mad dash to my bedroom, closed the bedroom door, began trying to change clothes as fast as I could.
Mind you, this is only my dad and me living there at home – us ‘guys’ – no closed doors.
My dad entered my room saying ‘Why is your door closed …’, but his words didn’t get any farther as he opened the door to see me un-dressing – some of Kathy’s clothes on me (bra, skirt, undies), some off (a blouse).
He just gave a cold stare as he left me alone to finish changing. That cold stare didn’t go away as we made supper and ate in silence, as I stayed in my bedroom doing homework all evening.
Then, late, about my bed-time, he came into my room. At first he was hushed. He mostly just stood there.
Another row starting quietly.
He asked me,
- ‘Why do you want to be a girl?’
Any reply that I said in prior arguments – my ‘Feminine Protesting’ – was pointless:
- ‘I AM a girl, dad! I’m NOT a boy!’
- ‘I’m gonna do it, Dad! I’m really gonna do it! You can’t stop me!’
He grabbed me, pulled me close to him. I began shaking, scared to say anything, scared for my life.
My dad went off on me. That was when he then grabbed my right arm, pulled it around my back, and taunted me to scream:
- ‘Scream! No one will hear you.’ he snarled.
If only my dad could have hugged me – as that father in that video – instead of yelling and beating me.
Why couldn’t I be Sharon? At least at home?
This was nothing new to family for years when they earlier said to me, ‘Oh, Nickie, what a cute little girl!’. Remember – Gail? Carol? Jack? That’s exactly what you said to me when I was age 3, 4, 5, etc. You even initiated conversation about this with me in 1993.
I knew that there was no way that I could finish 9th Grade at the Jesuit boys high school as Sharon. Doubtful that I could have transferred to the corresponding Jesuit girls school either. But we could have figured something practical beginning 10th Grade and the rest of high school.
Certainly, part-time at home would have provided some sense, some opportunity for me to test my female self.
Then came Greece – my dad said that he needed to take me from harmful influences at our home town – I could have attended Pinewood as Sharon.
Here comes the philosophy.
I truly consider that, if my dad was compassionate that day, my life would have been totally different from that point.
Having changed to Sharon at 9th Grade would have changed everything in my life from that time forward. All my experiences of life would have to be totally different. Nothing can be the same.
- Pinewood and Greece.
- My dad going to Brasil.
- My meeting Denise and starting Transition.
- Where I attended college.
- Where I was employed; the jobs that I did.
- All my work-mates would be different.
- If I worked for the federal government: Fort Huachuca, Forest Service.
- I would likely never have met Linda, my second mentor.
- My Transition itself would have been totally different.
Every person whom I would have known would be different, relationships would be different, or perhaps not at all.
Transition was typically done through university medical schools during the 1970s (see pages 7 and 8 of the Janus book that I posted here at this web-site – ‘Janus Information Facility’, 9 May 17). Would I still have been enrolled at the Stanford University Medical Center’s ‘Gender Dysphoria Program’ without Denise’s referral? Where else would I have gone? In what other program?
If I had no connection to Stanford and Janus, then who knows how much different I would have my enthusiasm for their documentary ‘What Sex Am I?’ (HBO, 1985)?
No! I would change nothing. For better, for worse, for whatever. Everything is who I am; I could never want to change.
Thank you, Friends, for visiting and reading.
Thank you to the resources who contribute to this page.
Please visit those references when I add them to these essays. The contributors work hard and tirelessly to bring about sense from the non-sense.
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