lgbtqia
LGBTQIA issues are fundamentally aligned with feminist ones; gender heteronormativity is dead.
On Womanhood. Top Story - June 2018.
“You are not a woman! And you never will be!”The words hit me like a slap in the face. And their volume. The crowd at the Mexican restaurant valiantly attempted to ignore my mother, who was making a scene. “I know who you are, and I know what you are and that’s all you’ll ever be!” My demure shock turned into anger like a time lapse video of an algae bloom.“You know nothing about me! You know what I let you know, and that’s it! Don’t you ever, ever…” and just as quickly, my anger passed. I found myself standing, preparing to leave the restaurant and walk the three miles of sidewalk-less forest road home.“Sit down, son.”“Stop. Calling. Me. That.”“Why? You’re my son.” Without a word, I started toward the door. My mother grabbed me by the sleeve.“Sit down.” Her voice was far more gentle than just moments ago. I swallow my pride and sit.“What makes you think you are a woman?” She asks me.“What makes you think you are?”“I can give birth. I have. To you.”“And the other four, whoever they are.”“Don’t get snotty.”“Sorry. Do you honestly think the ability to give birth is what makes you a woman?”“Ye…”“And that said, with the anguish that this has caused in our family, between us, do you really think it’s okay for you to just rub it in my face how I’ll never have children?”“Well, not with Samantha…”“No, mom. No. The problem wasn’t just Sam. She has her own things as well, but it wasn’t just her.”“What are you saying?”“I’m saying that the reason we tried and failed…” eight times, dear reader, “to have children wasn’t solely because of her own trauma.”There was a heavy silence. The tension built. Now it was my mother’s turn to get angry.“You told me she had an IUD.”“I lied.” I said, mirroring her tone. “Sam is a survivor. I’m not going to tell you the story, it’s not table talk, but if you ever feel like finding out, you should ask her. She didn’t change her number after she split. The point is that the problem is with me.”“Oh my god, that’s what this is about! This whole transgender thing is because of Sam leaving!”I make a face. “Are you joking? How would that help?”“I don’t know, I don’t understand anything about this.”“Well, let me explain.”“I don’t want to understand.”“Understand what, mother? Me? You don’t care to understand what is happening to me? You think you know all, that you can find the appropriate Bible passage and just pray really hard and it’ll all just float away?! Why do you think I am like this?!”“I DON’T! I THINK YOU’RE TRAUMATIZED FROM YOUR DIVORCE! I THINK YOU PRETENDING TO BE A WOMAN IS ALL ABOUT NOT FEELING LONELY ANYMORE!”“I’m not. In fact, I’ve accepted that I may never find someone to share my life. And I took it gladly in exchange for not feeling the weight of my dysphoria anymore.”“Oh my GOD! YOU ARE NOT A WOMAN!”“Yes,” I hissed at her, the restaurant not even attempting to not stare, “so you have said. Very loudly.”“It’s true!” Suddenly the anger was back. As if she, by virtue of having failed to force dad to wear a condom when she was 16, knew everything. I was done.“WHAT IS A WOMAN, MOTHER?!”
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