Heart surgery in the Bible Belt

I recently had the pleasure of a conversation with Kathleen Stock and Julie Bindel on their excellent podcast, The Lesbian Project.

One of the ways I personally benefit from such conversations, in addition to meeting such stellar people, is it shows me where I’m still guarding my heart. I don’t lie, but I’m not always ready to be fully transparent about my story either. I’m not always aware of where those sore spots are until I’m asked a question that touches them. Not that I think I owe the public every juicy detail of my personal life. I sometimes side step questions because I’m entitled to privacy, but other times, though I’d be perfectly willing to be honest, a part of me shuts down and I blurt out something not entirely true to cover that sore spot. I want to address those sore spots.

The conversation with Julie and Kathleen is a good example. I felt perfectly at ease talking to them about personal things, but I surprised myself twice. Once when Kathleen asked about the degree to which I was distressed as a young person. And again when Julie asked how things are going for me now that I’m living back home in the Bible Belt.

Kathleen’s question (childhood distress):

It’s true that I wasn’t very distressed as a young kid up until puberty. I remember once, when I was 5, I was walking to school singing songs to God and I remember thinking to myself that my heart felt completely light and unburdened. I pictured a scale and imagined that my heart would weigh nothing. (I was unusually introspective – but happy)

It’s true that changed, starting at puberty.

What I left out of my answer: by the time I graduated high school, I was so traumatized by the homophobia I experienced that I was almost entirely mute, with paralyzing social anxiety. Going to art school was a way to start working that out, wordlessly. My queer theory based work was shown in art galleries and magazines. A curator in Halifax, a gay man, wrote about my work and purchased a series of self portraits I did in drag.

From Dressing Down, a curated art show at the Oakville Galleries, Ontario.

This is what was later resolved by medicalization:

I felt safe enough in the world to start doing the work I needed to do recover from the trauma. I think this is true of many who medicalize – at least the girls. I don’t have the same degree of insight into the boys. They weren’t my peer group. Transition was helpful for me, not as a final destination as “a man” but as a tool that allowed enough relief from the impact of trauma to actually start addressing it. It seemed impossible to go inward when, outwardly, I was still getting homophobic slurs screamed at me. Transitioning stopped that.

As a side note: I have very conflicting feelings about “misgendering” for this reason. I do understand the reasoning for using sex-based language. But I’m also keenly aware of the deep trauma being protected by the veil of “trans” – and the potential harm to these women when others callously rip away a protective shield. From a clinical perspective, every therapist (hopefully) knows that kicking away someone’s defences, before the client is ready to address what those defences are protecting, is psychologically harmful. It can cause dangerous psychological unravelling.

As far as where I’m at now with having medically transitioned. I’m at peace with it. Having done a lot of my own work, I’m no less masculine as a lesbian. My masculinity isn’t a part of the trauma. It’s just the me I’ve always been. So, I’m happy with how I look. I have fully integrated that into my lesbianism. I’m allowed to look this masculine as a woman.

I still have some residual shyness. But I will never shut up again.

Julie’s question (being back home):

I’m most surprized by how I answered this. I said something to the effect that my family has always been supportive of me and that my return home has been best characterized as full of acceptance and support. I call out my own bullshit here.

My parents were supportive of my transition. Not my lesbianism. The first thing my dad said when I decided to medicalize was “Well, that’s better than the gay thing. I don’t know why you don’t all do that.”

My mom discovered that I was a lesbian by snooping through my room. I’d been journaling about a crush I had on a girl at school and hid that journal at the back of the top shelf in my closet. I came home that day to very upset parents who forbid me from spending time with that girl (not that I listened) and then took me in to see our family doctor for a diagnosis. The doctor asked me stupid questions about what role I wanted to play. By the end of the assessment, I was “diagnosed” as a lesbian. My mom cried and my dad was angry. “Not in my house.”

A few weeks later, I found admission papers for gay conversion therapy (ECT) in a kitchen drawer. It was at this time that I reached out to the Gay and Lesbian Resource Centre in Winnipeg. They connected me with a lesbian my age, and it was with her that I started going to the lesbian bar 8 hours away. (I’m still friends with that woman to this day). I was preparing myself to run away from home if necessary.

It was also around this time that I stopped talking, about 95% of the time. My heart was certainly no longer weightless. I was fighting off suicidal thoughts and trying to preserve myself.

Returning home hasn’t been easy. I’m flooded with memories.

Since moving back here, I’ve completely cut off all contact with my mom. I’ve made a lot of excuses for her cruelty over the years, because of her own childhood trauma. I’m not going to tolerate that anymore. She can get her own help, which she refuses to do. My dad and brother have also cut her off.

I have only one gay friend here. I bought a tractor from him last spring and he messaged me afterwards to tell me I had beautiful eyes. We sorted that out quickly and became friends. He’s closeted and in a loveless heterosexual marriage, like most gay and lesbian people here.

I have met one lesbian couple about an hour away. A handsome military butch and her partner. They are also isolated.

I’ve been very slow and cautious forming any new relationships here. Which is why I don’t use female pronouns in town. This isn’t the town where I grew up, but nearby. So I’m mostly unknown. Appearing male as I figure out how to live here is a helpful cover.

My dad is concerned about my safety. He knows the people here better than I do. He’s particularly concerned about two brothers. He’s certain they’d harm me if I was outed.

He’s given me a compound hunting bow.  I plan to buy a .22 shotgun and relearn how to shoot. I grew up running around the countryside with the boys, shooting guns. I was a very good shot back then. (Better than all the boys)

So, this is what it looks like, to not run away as a lesbian in a place like this. The Vancouver city butch, a nurse and art school kid, is now buying a gun in consideration of my safety.

And yet… I still feel safer here than in Vancouver where the trans activists hate me. At least here, it’s considered acceptable to arm myself to stay safe. My military butch friend will be doing some target practice with me when she gets back from a post.

Being gay in the Bible Belt doesn’t seem any easier. The queer agenda is actually ramping up homophobia. But, I’m stronger.

It hasn’t been all bad.

I love the bit of land I bought. I’m surrounded by flowers. My lilacs and crabapple trees are now in bloom. I have a woodworking shop. I have a huge garden I hope will produce enough food to last through the winter. I bought jars and want to learn how to preserve food. I’m learning how to fix water pumps and dig wells.  I love driving my little tractor, and my dad’s “side-by-side”.

I’ve been playing bluegrass gospel music with a group of good guys. We’ve formed a band, for misfits rejected by the church. I’ve come out to some of them.

I painted a large landscape painting for the town’s community garden.

When my old blind dog went missing recently, the whole town helped me search for her. And when her body was found a week later, my neighbours were very kind.

My dad and I have become very close. He’s apologized for his homophobia.

I’m figuring this out. I’m not a scared child anymore.