Manifesto, or an Open Declaration of War.

I had watched, on television, as a child, the marches in Selma Alabama under the leadership of a sincere man named Martin Luther King Jr. I saw on TV the police brutalize African-Americans because they were involved in a peaceful march to get the right to vote (something already given by law but not supported by any penalty like the recent transgender rights “given” to us by NV legislature) I watched as newscasters spoke nervously of a radical, Malcolm X, who promoted the hatred and violence (bullshit but you get the idea) of decent white folk through a thinly veiled practice of Islam. I lived 16 miles from the HQ of the Black Panthers in Oakland CA as the party grew from the remains of RAM, I remember Huey P Lewis and Bobby Seale. I remember the Panthers carrying loaded shotguns and rifles in their neighborhoods (almost exclusively poor black people) and the Panther mission as the defense of community. The Panthers’ famous “policing the police” drew attention to the spatial remove that White Americans enjoyed from the state violence that had come to characterize life in black urban communities.

I remember when Black men and women stopped nodding and smiling when someone called them “Nigger” and the people of color started saying “I don’t dig that word, Honkey” then someone would say it a while later and they would get an angry black fist or more in their mouth. Even though my skin was pale white, I grew up with these wonderful emotional people, living in the bay area I rejoiced when I saw them say “I’m not your nigger” and back it up. I remember the fear black skin could incite in a large group of white people. I remember thinking “Something is happening, I was 8, but I was inspired. Even to this day, I see people not of color look around nervously before saying that hated word. Fear prevents them from being too stupid. Fear born of many angry black fists raised in the air and raised in violence against injustice and ignorance.

Today I am still white, and red. That means little to me, because now that three years ago I have transitioned, I am in the same place as my cousins in Oakland in the mid 60′s. I am called “Tranny” and “She-male” and “Lady Boy” and a myriad of other things that hurt and marginalize and destroy my humanity. Things that make me inhuman so it is easier to beat me, rape me, rob from me, discriminate against me and deny me the right to be a living human being. When Gay men smugly tell me “Its all right, I know a lot of trannys and they don’t mind me calling them Tranny at all” I have stopped saying “Well, please don’t use the word with me, it is offensive” then I moved on to “Knock it off faggot – how do YOU like it” To finally grabbing someone by whatever article of clothing or available handhold I can get and threatening (promising) to beat the shit out of them if they say it again or even try to justify it to me.

I am called crazy, I am called a bitch. I am called a cunt. Never to my face after I decide to promise someone the ass beating of their life. But I am still called that. I get people telling me “Get over it” “Lighten up” and the inane “Try smiling a little more” as if it’s all okay cause we have trite little phrases we like to throw up rather than ugly truth. Instead of saying “I understand that as a Trans person you are routinely denied even basic human rights and are understandably upset” my frustration and anger with being dismissed is compounded by some Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual or Straight asshole telling me “It gets better”.

Listen up, Mr. and Ms. “Not me”, IT DOESN’T GET BETTER TILL A FEW MORE HEADS ARE BROKEN AND YOUR FEAR OF PHYSICAL REPRISAL OVERRIDES YOUR CISGENDER PRIVILEGED ATTITUDE ! Do you understand what I am saying? I am a radical trans person, I will hit you, I will knock you down and stomp you, I will slap your mouth, after enough abuse I may be willing to set your car on fire, I may even be willing to start my own form of harassment against you, to see how YOU like it. Will your gender privileged friends tell you “Get over it” or will they worry that they may be next? Will it take a lot of us rioting? Burning down YOUR homes and shops? Beating random cis gender privileged people beyond a simple street fight? Maybe to death? Before you see enough is enough and your privilege does not mean SHIT to the oppressed?

Am I advocating lawlessness? Yes, I am. I have had enough of people asking me about how I have sex, what my genitalia looks like, what I prefer men or women or do I like under age persons. I have had enough of YOU. Judging me, making up stereotypes of me based on bad porn movies (WTF are you watching that shit for anyway if you hate me so much?). And Gay males, you are NOT me so shut your fucking mouths and stop speaking for me. I am NOT a gay male, what I am has NOTHING to do with my sexual behavior; it is all of me, 24/7. Quite like black or brown or yellow skin, I cannot hide this, I cannot safely retreat to a closet and pretend I am cis gendered like all the normal people when it means possibly losing a job for being who and what I am. My image does not stop at the bedroom door like you can get away with SO DON’T SPEAK FOR ME EVER AGAIN! Speak of your Gay sex and your Gay causes and how it is so wrong to say “Gay” when you mean lame or weak. Speak of your own shit and stay the fuck out of my neighborhood.

Advocates, stopping high fiving when you get legislation passed that says it is illegal to discriminate against us. When I specifically ask a BUNCH of you where is the enforcement and NOT ONE of you have ever been able to tell me. ACLU, fuck you too. Trans cases are hard to win when we aren’t physically abused on camera and your case is made easy for you. When the case gets a little tougher, like the clear violation of the brand new wonderful trans equality legislation and you haven’t any photo proof you back away from it so fast you leave skid marks GO THE FUCK AWAY. I will just beat the shit out of the next medical professional that calls me by the wrong pronoun after a warning.

Do I sound ungrateful? Do I sound unappreciative? Do I sound dangerous? Do I sound radical? Do I sound violent? Do I sound militant?

Good, your beginning to get the fucking idea. Live in fear, your days of privilege are numbered, the sooner you learn, the safer you will remain. War has been declared, and the battle has already begun.

To my rapist. An Apology.

Trigger Warning: Rape, Violence, pedophilia

Dear Rapist:

Sorry for the impersonal greeting. I remember your face, your penis and the pain, but for the life of me I cannot remember your name. Please understand, I mean no disrespect. I was only 17, pretty and very friendly and trusting. You rewarded my trust in such a way that it was better for me to block as much of the incident out of my mind as possible.

I was new to the US Army, a young infantry soldier, just 17, tall, lithe, big brown eyes and pretty by most any standard. I was a male, as you were. You were my superior, a Non-Commissioned officer, a leader of men, very trusted and I was very impressed that you would take me under your wing and mentor me. I felt so special. I felt I could do anything asked of me and I would ask to do more. I felt I was flying. I was drenched in the sunshine of pride and humility.

I was homesick. I was a teenager away from home for the very first time. A strange brew of pride, excitement and homesickness mixed with longing for the peace and strength of my father and mother. You led me, you showed me the little tricks that make life in the field easier and even more enjoyable. You showed me I was capable of so much more than I ever thought I would be. I put my life my safety and my trust fully in you. And I felt warm and safe, even a little valuable. It was a wonderful heady feeling. You taught me so many great secrets of being an infantry soldier, much of what I use today to survive. I used the tactics you taught me as a single woman living on the streets and I am alive today. Thank you.

You also followed me to my room one evening, as I undressed you invited me to sit on my bed with you, you sat very close to me, you talked about how bright and how much a terrific soldier I was and was going to be. You told me you saw great things for me. You put your hand on my leg, like my father used to when he and I spoke very close and conspiratorial against pretty much anything that limited my horizons, I felt a wash of nostalgia, I unwittingly went back to being a good son, and I leaned against your shoulder.

Then you shattered my world. You killed something in me that I have never regained. You moved your hand where my father would have NEVER put it. You moved it to my crotch, you rubbed, I protested, you told me that I should do this because I obviously wanted it. I was all of a sudden terrified of you, the pain, shame, horror shaped the next 36 years of my life. Living almost daily with PTSD, not trusting, always watching over my shoulder, hurting others to vent my frustration and rage. The taste of your penis in my mouth was not nearly as bad as the taste of self-hatred I felt for doing such a horrid thing. The feeling of your hard penis tearing my ass open as you bent me over my desk and proceeded to fuck me never hurt nearly as bad as the knowledge I was not deserving to wear the uniform I loved so much, the feel of your semen dripping down my thigh after you pulled out and warning me that if I spoke of this I would be dead, killed me effectively at that point.

But this is an apology. You poor dear soul. As much as I am a victim of your rape, for it is indeed YOUR rape that I suffered, you are the victim here too. Taught that it is okay to show your superiority with a penis, to make the lesser man or woman heel with sexual assault. Our society, the military and even the ads we see on tv and read of in print, all tell us that man owns woman, and by extension, pretty little weak boys. You were a good leader, right to the point you took my life from me by raping me, continuously, for the better part of a year until you traded me to a very old former soldier off post for his pleasure. I was a sex toy that big men could trade to each other. I will never know what i was worth to you,why you chose me. But your illness we both suffer for.

Are you remembering what you did ? Does it haunt you ? Do you try to live a peaceful life except for what you did to at least one underage boy ? I am so sorry. I wish you nothing but peace. I wish, now, I could face you, tell you I forgive you and pray for your happiness, pray that you forget the pain, but remember the act so you can warn others. You were such a good leader in your capacity, you taught me much, but the lesson I learned from you that still destroys any chance I have at a normal life is the one I remember best.

I know the horrors I still face

I pray you never have to.

I forgive you Sgt. Now and forever. Please forgive yourself. You deserve it.

The Incredible Rainbow Chasing Girl

See it there, in a cage of rotten flowers

For all to see! Keep the children back

Those of faint heart or weak nerves will

Not wish to view this freak.

She walks! She talks! She crawls

On her belly like a REPTILE!

Amazing, sad and horrifying she’s the

Incredible Rainbow Chasing Girl!

It gives its life to others. Smiling

Like an empty minded idiot while the insults

Bounce off its broad shoulders like hailstones!

Each a hurt but it doesn’t show it at all!

Hurry Hurry Hurry ! Step right up. For the

Bravest only, you can get close enough to

Spit RIGHT ON IT’S HEART! It’s right

There on its sleeve. Go ahead, the

Chains we bind it with are NOTHING

Compared to the chains it bound itself

With MANY years ago! It is bound to a

Rock of dream stuff stronger than any locomotive!

Is it man? Is it woman? It is nothing of the sort!

A freak! A real freak! It found us, we certainly

Weren’t looking for anything this disgusting!

Go ahead, it can’t hear (we think it can’t)!

It acts like a human! Truly we do not lie!

It dresses itself, washes itself almost

Like a human, but not quite! IT WILL EVEN

CRY REAL TEARS! Don’t worry, no

Freak was harmed in the show. Yet.

Don’t cry little boy, it can’t happen to you

Your normal, this beast isn’t even really

Human like you or your mommy and daddy.

Hurry, Hurry, Hurry ! Step right up

View the freak before its gone forever!

A once in a lifetime chance. (No flash photos

or videos please. Our insurance prohibits it).

Waking up in Vegas Part II

Yeah. Thats right. I am no longer dealing with Virginia City other than people I left there. I threw out all my boi clothes finally, I only have and wear women’s clothing (it’s what my ID says) and I feel marvelous.

I’m not working yet. Yet. It’s only a matter of time before everyone realizes what a great catch I am and I will be fighting off the offers (are you listening human resources ? Here I am and am available now ). SO today I bought a pass on the bus, came down to East Sahara and am at the LGBT center there. I tried to insert a link to the Las Vegas center but it didn’t take so this is it http://www.thecenterlv.com the neighborhood isn’t the greatest but the people rock. I am sitting here and there are two other transpersons sitting in here with me ! It feels marvelous.

Well, am pretty much just rambling here, wanted to let the one or two accidental readers I have know I am safe and happy.

God bless and mad love

Kynthia

Waking up in Vegas

Yes

I wake up in Sin City now. No longer in Virginia City – home of the inbred drunken professional gossip – Sin City itself. Okay, let’s be fair. First place I hit in Vegas was a Catholic Church. St Josephs Husband of Mary on Sahara Blvd.

I did not take communion because, after all, I really hadn’t time to go to confession. Which is good because when I went out Tuesday night with my posse there are things I would rather NOT confess just yet in a new church home. The double knee slide in a cocktail dress (one pair of panty hose shot to hell and a knee burn) .

Point is I am back. I havent posted anything in a long time. We will go over some of the stress anger and anxiety I went through up there but for now go to YouTube, look up Katy Perry and listen to the song “Waking up in Vegas” and think kindly of me.

I still have my ID….

Two hearts, one broken, one forgotten.

Okay, yes, I am crying my eyes out tonight. No, it isn’t making anything any better, but at least I am alone and it is something to do.

Roy Carpenter, a cowardly little bitch from Carson City, is wanting custody of his daughter. That is fine. Except Roy, being the father of my stepdaughter, has decided the best route to get custody is to claim I am unstable and dangerous because I am taking a powerful drug. And that I am a transsexual. We cannot forget to play the lurid card.

What is this powerful drug that can make me violent and moody ? What pill can take a person who, for ten years straight, has carried two .357 magnum pistols in public without incident or injury ? A person who has performed stunts around children and families for ten years in very close proximity in both Tombstone AZ and Virginia City NV ? What drug could be this powerful and frightening ?

The drug is Estradiol. Maybe you know it better as Estrogen. I do anyway. Yup, the same powerful drug his daughter is going to produce naturally will turn me into a raving maniac. Well, not really, but it sounds good when you want to play the lurid card. So he is a coward and an idiot. YES – I yelled at his lawyer. Damn skippy I did. And of course, they had a meeting with Roy and Sara and both attorneys and basically told S “He moves out or we go to court”.

Nice huh ? So its either I leave my home, with nowhere to go right now, during winter, or S has to go to court without an attorney. Third options is *I* pay for her attorney (2500.00 – yeah, I work for minimum wage and am lucky to have that job). So third is not really a real option.

Am I ready to fight ? Yes, do I have the means ? No. Am I screwed ? As far as I can tell, that would be a resounding YES.

So my womans heart is broken, not that I have to move but that I wont be around my little girl any more or even really allowed around her. Cause I am a wicked evil violent dangerous tranny.

So I guess all I have to say is screw everyone and everything. I really dont care much about anything right now.

The art of non-passing.

Passing, Stealth, Deep-stealth, Blending.

These words have one meaning for most other folks, for Trans-folk like myself, they can sometimes mean the difference between life and death (figuratively and literally) . Now don’t get me wrong. I am a BIG girl, 6 ft 220 I am losing weight, gimmie a BREAK) somebody wishes to make a smart-ass comment about my looks or shout out, totally inappropriately “THAT’S A DUDE” I can handle it pretty easily. Not always so with people who are with me at the time. And not true for me 100% of the time.

I don’t try too hard to pass. My HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) hasn’t kicked in yet, I haven’t had any FFS (feminization Facial Surgery) And at my size, its evident. But I don’t dress like a teenage hooker with an addiction to Victoria’s Secret cast offs. Simply because I am an old woman. I am 52, I dress like such. Yes I have jeans, designer, of course, yes I have animal prints (Umm, looking to replace some of those with hounds tooth cause animal print is SO 2008) and I do have a few heels that are, essentially, non-essential but CUTE ! Ergo, they become essential by their very non-essential-ness. Like walking to mass today, down two very steep roads in the snow, in boots with very sharp 4 inch heels, not terribly bright but CUTE. Nope, didn’t fall down, didn’t even slip – two years ballet HA ! There are a lot of GGs (Genetic Girls or Genuine Girls)that cannot claim the same thing.

I simply dress in whatever makes me feel pretty, feminine, beautiful or just plain happy. It is NOT a fashion show out there, but its always nice to look your best. Doesn’t mean it is always easy. Like today.

I get to church just a few moments before mass starts (I made it, but the good father didn’t, he got stuck at home by the snow, he is a wonderful priest and has made every effort to assure me I am welcome in God’s house regardless of the Pope’s crappy attitude towards T-folk) and I get TOTALLY self-conscious. I was wearing makeup (something I rarely if ever do at church. I typically under dress, hair, jeans, nice blouse nothing too outre’) But today I am wearing breast appliances, a nice animal print blouse with satin underblouse and high heels (see above, 4 inch heels walking in snow etc) In other words, I am not camouflaged as usual. I am OUT there. My clothing would be considered suitably muted if worm by a GG but worn by a tranny it is almost screaming “Look at me”.

Well, really it isn’t, but, this is what I am feeling, so I sit down in the LAST pew in the corner, away from everyone else. I bury my shaggy lil head into the missal and read the service (first Sunday of lent) and feel the eyes of the entire congregation upon me. Burning their disbelief that a tranny would dare to show its ugly face in church of all places.

Okay, here is the facts. No one started at me, no one cared, most everyone there is used to seeing me in one form of dress or another and could care less. I am usually warmly greeted, welcomed and asked after. I felt out of place because FEAR – the opposing force of Faith – drove me to self-doubt. Forced me to hide and not really enjoy what should have been an uplifting and life-affirming sermon. It was on the temptations of Satan to Christ (He fasted for forty days in the desert and Satan tried to get him to turn rocks into bread where Jesus replied “It is written, man does not live by bread alone” etc basically a  HUGE FAIL by Satan and getting his horned lil head  PWNED by JC.) so I paid attention yet did not get the full effect of the sermon or the readings. And, when all is said and done, it is MY fault for allowing it.

Cause I couldn’t pass to my eyes suitably, I blamed everyone else by assuming THEY saw me as out of place even when they didn’t. Not very fair, was I ? And it boils down to a simple lesson I learned a LONG time ago. If I have not faith in myself, why should anyone else ? Buck up the confidence baby. I am no Miss America, but I am me, the only person capable of being me is me. And if I can be confident that when I go out that I am faith-worthy of myself, others will have faith in me too.

If not, then the only thing that can replace faith would be fear.

And I really wish to fear no man, or woman, not even myself.

Much faith-based love

Kynthia

Fear of Flying (Apologies to Erica Jong and second-wave feminism)

Okay, yes, I fear flight in fixed-wing plane (Of which type most commercial aircraft are as opposed to rotor-wing aircraft usually called helicopters) I hate take off, I always fear the aircraft will not clear something and we will wind up plowing into an unmovable obstacle at nearly 200MPH ground speed (what that would be in knots is beyond me – look it up if it is that important) I am not comfortable with turbulence, it scares the pants off me (not a huge difficulty for a boy who loves wearing dresses) and landing ? Okay, I cry a lot. Quietly, no public hysterics and the tears are such I blame allergies but still, it scares the hell out of me. Helicopters do not have that effect on me. They can fly through blinding snowstorms with the warning Klaxons singing the whole time and I am good. I trust rotor-wings.

So why bring it up ? Okay, I am booking a flight, from Reno to Las Vegas. Come April 17th I am flying down to the “What goes on here stays here” city for Diva Las Vegas. Las Vegas. The Sin City itself. Diva Las Vegas is not a conference. At conferences you have to do stuff, attend lectures, go to panels blah blah blah. Nope, DLV is a vacation. It is CD/TG/TS and their admirers/family/friends/So’s meeting in Vegas for fun and Galiano (sic) you have to go to the website to see what that is about.

There is a series of events planned, some unplanned, so folks can get out, play the tourist and just enjoy themselves. At first, it sounded like a good idea, then, as the date gets closer it seems like an almost mandatory idea. I mean, After all that has gone down (I write more about the positive than I do the negative, trust me on this. When it gets too negative I don’t feel like writing so you don’t get the full story) I could really use a break. My sister Chrissy (A beautiful Tgirl, and one of my staunchest friends) has invited me to stay with her so essentially I come up with airfare (99.00 Southwest Air round-trip) a Valium (two, one down and one back) and make sure my Visa has enough room to party.

I am finally going to take a vacation. I do not remember when I last did. Seriously. I don’t take vacations. Even when I was in the Army on leave. Sure, made a trip back home for Xmas or other holidays, but beyond that, no vacations. No going somewhere just for me and now, I have somewhere and somewhen to be. And to top it off, this is Kynthia’s BIG year. The year SHE has had control,the year SHE is the one in the forefront. What a way to celebrate. Oh sure, I wont have my laser done by then, I wont probably get my hormones by then but screw it. This aint a beauty pageant, there are no competitions, it is just plain fun !

And Chrissy and I get to talk with each other without relying on messaging or email.

This WILL be a vacation.

Hugs

Kynthia

These dreams… WARNING ADULT CONTENT

Sigmund Freud

Dreams. They are bits of mental fluff, decorating the inside of an otherwise unused mind (sleep state) or they are indications of desires, fears, ambitions etc, or, if your more into the metaphysical, they are portents of things to come.

Mine are disturbing me lately. Last night I spoke with my mother, dead just a bit over a year now. It was not a bad talk, just a talk we had and, no, although I put my life up here like some kind of whore for all to see (wait, no, like a slut, a whore at least has the dignity to charge for this service) there are a few things I am not willing to share, the conversation between my mother and I being one of them. Suffice to say I miss her so damn much. I was lucky, my parents, divorced though they were, were wonderful. And I was a schmuck, for not listening to the simple words they told me “Honey, I just want you to be happy” That was mom and “This above all: To thine own self be true” Daddy, yeah, he had a flair for the theatrical, God rest his soul) And I was afraid to tell either of them they had a late-onset trans sexual for a son, former son, a daughter.

I just typed the word “trans sexual” it has taken me a year to admit it, it took me a few months to admit to trans gender before that I was simply a cross dresser. After reflection I realized my life was headed towards full time femininity. So it was not a huge leap to say “Trans gender” that gave me an out. A TG wasnt all the way a sell out, didn’t totally abandon his/her gender, just switched as necessary. But I want. I want hormones, I want FFS (Feminizing Facial Surgery) I want SRS (Sexual Reassignment Surgery). That last one is scary. not because I have a fear of castration (are you kidding me ? Did you read my last entry ?) But it means ALL the marbles. I am calling my own bluff here. And I have nothing left to put in the pot.

I have NO clue how I will ever achieve the $22,000.00 US it will take for the surgery, but I will do it. everything that was past IS now past. I may dress as a boi for work, but very few people buy it. God in heaven knows I no longer do. Yes, they stare at my nails, and my nails are beautiful, why shouldn’t they stare? They look at my hair and compliment me on it, women and men. And I have to admit, when men compliment me on it I get a small thrill. When women compliment me it validates all that I am doing so far.

Chapter two, I prefer women, sexually. But lately, again, dreams. Last night in a dream I had a very homo erotic session. And it wasn’t that I was fellating a man that bothered me, it was my attitude. It felt okay. It felt like it was absolutely the right thing to do at that moment. I remember the couch we were sitting on, a brown herringbone pattern love seat. Seemed very comfortable. He was wearing blue denims (well, at least to his quadriceps) and a white T-shirt. He had no underwear on. And he got very hard very quickly. If I remember correctly he had about 6 – 6.5 inches. Not terribly thick but a fair sized penis when erect. I was wearing nothing, As I put my head down into his lap, I saw my breasts. Again, not overly huge, about a lovely C cup. Firm and round. Pretty even. I don’t remember if I had a penis or not. But I was enjoying myself immensely after a few moments.

When I woke up I was a little disappointed. My lover of course was not there. I lay in bed for many minutes and mused about my recent dreams. The talk with mother. Okay, what we talked about was me telling her she had more than just the one daughter. We will leave it at that. And again, regrets for not telling her. I could allow people to shoot at me with live weapons and return their fire just as easily. I could stare down an entire chapter of a national motorcycle club ( I did but you wont believe me so consider it just said and leave it at that) but I did not have the courage to introduce my mother, who loved me VERY much, to her newest daughter.

And confusion, excitement, thrill ? I dunno, the dream with the male lover, especially with me in a very submissive position, had me confused. Is this a direction I am heading, interested in heading,  where I will be ? what ?

The psychic apparatus habitually represses wishes, usually of a sexual or aggressive nature, whereby they become preserved in one or more unconscious systems of ideas. This was a theory of Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalytic psychology. Following this, was my dream an unconscious desire manifesting itself as a dream ? Or, was it, as Freud said of a cigar,

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”  *

I am not a smoker, so, I guess I need to go talk to the shrink. But, in a way, I am happy this has happened, because at least I have an idea of what may be to come.

*No actual evidence proves Freud actually said the above, but it is usually attributed to him.

Practical jokes

We all have a few we either have done (hand in warm water, Vaseline on the doorknob etc) or others we have heard about (mercury in a tire – doesn’t work as well as you think it would by the way) and the list is endless, sort of, I think there are web sites devoted to listing anything from simple and harmless to stupid and deadly. ANYWAY…

My practical joke is simply this. God, in his infinite wisdom, decided to make me a boy at birth. And, for some twisted reason, also gave me a girl’s heart. Right next to the boy heart he put in there. Ha ha Jehovah, now enough is enough. Unfortunately God hasn’t decided to let me have the punch line yet.

All right. I am a big girl (6 ft 220 lbs for those counting – and yes, I am a 14 for those considering buying me a nice Anne Klein for my birthday, size 11 Christian Louboutins, no peep toes or sandals please) I can take it. I am not even going to shake my fist at Father. He has his reasons, I have mine. Mostly, we agree, when we don’t, he shows infinite patience and allows me to make up my mind, and when I am done screwing up he helps me figure it out. (I do love God, really, but he really trusts me far too much).

At issue here is a uterus, something I do not have, Well “DUH”, you say, “You were born a boy, you got a penis and a pair of testicles instead. Arent you enjoying that” ? Fact is I did enjoy it. It has brought me a lot of pleasure in the past. It has also cost me. Long sad stupid story, I’ll write it down on another blog someday. But back to my point.

I do not have a uterus because I was born with male anatomy. But at 3 yrs old (yes I remember further back than that even. Even to when I was 18 months old when my baby brother came home from the hospital) I knew I was more comfortable in a dress. Later, as I grew older, I was comfortable taking care of babies. By age 8 I watched them, babysat. As a teen I was recommended by others for watching mostly kids, but had a special knack with infants. They calmed around me quickly. I sang to them, cuddled them, changed them and felt something I was ashamed of. I felt feminine. I felt, motherly.

Okay, yeah, this should have told me something, but all it told me was I was probably a fagot. I was raised in a different era, where boys would be boys and if they were girls you were allowed to beat the shit out of them and they deserved it. Enough walking down memory lane, for now.

I wanted to HAVE a baby. I wanted to feel a little life grow in me, give birth to and suckle this young life at my breast. But, physically it wasn’t going to happen. So, I helped make babies. My first one, I was excited, I was seventeen, her name was Millie. She was beautiful and pregnant she was ethereal. The baby lived a few moments after birth, then died. A piece of me died that day as well. As a father, and being unmarried, and in the military, there was no time for mourning or anything. Besides, not a mans job.

I have hated myself for that. 30 plus years, and it still sits there, my first child, dead, a baby lost. And tears in my heart. Oh, with other wives I had other children. None of the marriages lasted but the kids have. They turned out really well too. I was there for the births. I helped. But that first child, born to only die within moments helped to secure in me that feeling that has haunted me for so long.

I will never be a mother. The one part of a woman I so longed to be, can never happen.

So, genetically born females out there, when your period comes around, I don’t wish to hear your complaints. I will happily get you a heating pad, make you tea or otherwise aid you in relieving your pain and discomfort. But do not complain to me abut being a woman, and I will not complain to you about never being able to be a mother.

Peace