On TERF Beliefs & Sex

No one is entitled to intimacy.

Let me reiterate: No. One. Is. Entitled. To. Intimacy. Of. Any. Sort. Nor. Are. They. Obligated. To. Provide. It.

Even during a relationship, there should never be an obligation to provide intimacy. Every person should have the right to determine what they are comfortable with both inside and outside of a relationship at any point in time. Humans on the whole are not static, after all, and even within the span of a few minutes a mind can go from being a-okay to stormy which is something a person truly interested in the company of another should be considerate of. After all, all types of relationships should be based upon the compassion for the other being. Otherwise, it’s a selfish endeavor by a person unworthy of attention.

Why even discuss this? It’s a common tactic of reactionaries which appropriate the label of “feminist” to dismiss trans people as perverted violators of consent. The first claim is that trans people are forcefully erasing other identities based on sexual activity (think: lesbian and gay) because trans people do not have the “right equipment” to be either:

Lesbian, if they are a trans woman (whether they be a dyke or a femme).

Gay, if they are a trans man (whether they are masculine or feminine).

Second, it’s claimed that trans people decry “transphobia” at anyone who is not interested in being intimate with them. As someone that’s had her fair share of propositions for dates or sex, I find this hard to believe. I find it even harder to believe when I consider the experience of friends dealing with similar situations. I will not say I have never met a transgender individual that didn’t handle rejection well and went too far. Such instances are few and far between, however. It’s hardly a representative sample of transgender people, very much unlike the pervasive nature of consent violations by cisgender males. In fact, it could be argued that all transgender people are as acutely aware of rape culture as cisgender women as rape is often used as a “corrective” tool against people LGBTQIA+. Not only that, but the rift between a trans person’s assigned gender and their natural identity forms very early on in their life leaving them exposed to two different sides:

1) The side they are forcefully made to identify with and act out.
2) The side they are internally comfortable with which they are forced to observe and absorb from a distance.

In the case of trans women, this means being involuntarily subjected to misogyny as any other woman, but from men that think you agree all while one’s brain is screaming about being the target of their aggression. Many trans women find themselves in the predicament between standing up for themselves and other women directly to people that are often more powerful than them (testosterone levels are often lower for trans women) or staying silent and being complicit with the violence being spewed. Is it the fault of the woman for being caught between a rock and a hard place? Or is it the fault of patriarchal ideals which tell men it’s okay to denigrate and humiliate women? To fantasize about committing violence and doing so? In my opinion, which is worth little in this world, it is the latter that is the problem, but often these reactionaries place the blame on the trans woman for finding herself in such a situation.

I know that, for myself, I found solace only in friendships with other women. The men I befriended were few and far between, and they were almost exclusively liberal leaning despite my conservative Republican nature at the time. They were the only men I felt safe being around, and I vetted such friendships like a hawk as anyone else would. I was never one to be a welcome mat for such hatred against people I was a part of, and I experienced the gamut of all the ways the men still clinging to misogyny would show you not to speak up or act out, but I digress.

What I have found in my many years of studying human anatomy all the way from the Planck scale to the atomic to the cellular to the macroscopic is that there is no one way to be a particular sex. There is no one way to be a particular gender. There are often no indicators of what outcome a conscious being will end up with, as well. Thus, there is no right or wrong way to be a lesbian or gay.  Despite the argument that “there’s only penis and vagina and that determines who you are,” nature simply does not agree with such black-and-white view. This false dichotomy would decide that a baby born with dual-X chromosomes (“female”) but an SRY gene within them (genetic code for phalloclitoris differentiation into a phallus) could never consider herself a lesbian if she chose to only be intimate with other women despite her genitalia. While a reactionary will argue that this is not possible because she has a penis and that “she has a genetic disorder,” that is an irrelevant moral judgment based on nothing objective. Claiming a deviation from the average is “negative” in some way is more of a reflection of the claimant’s mindset about the world, that it should be as they perceive it rather than what it truly is, more than anything else.

Thus, a woman with a larger than average clitoris which likes other women is still a lesbian once you push the moralistic view aside to embrace the diversity of nature. Claiming they are neither woman nor lesbian – or in the case of trans men claiming they are neither man nor gay – does show a lack of complete understanding regarding the possible outcomes for women and men which is very much an attempt to stereotype both types of people to fit a very narrow world view for the sole purpose of avoiding a perceived threat. No one would argue that you’re obligated or required to be intimate with them in either case, but most well-meaning individuals would argue that you should be willing to listen to more than what you were taught many years ago when science was even less experienced than present day. No one would argue that you must be intimate with trans lesbians as a cis lesbian, but everyone familiar with such information would certainly say that you should be willing to examine your own beliefs right down to the very root of it. Any compassionate and logical mind would argue that you should be willing to trace every bit of such a belief down to the core to see whether or not it has root rot or not.

How do you know if you’re being transphobic if you’ve only considered it from your own, possibly even extremely limited, perspective?

You can’t know. You don’t know. But do you care to know? Do you care to find out? Do you care enough about other people that are not exactly like you to ensure you are the best version of yourself? That’s the real question – not whether you’d have sex with a trans person.

 

**I do apologize that this was written in a very binary manner, but it was done so for the sake of brevity and clarity. You can chew me out in private messages if you’d like. ❤

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The “Fag” Next Door

[CN: CSA, r*pe, abuse, genital discussion, torture, sui*, self-harm]

Oh my goodness, my lovelies. Life has been a rollercoaster of emotions over the last several months, and even moreso recently. It’s drained me of penning anything longer than a status here or there. However, since there’s been so much discussion about the ‘girlhood’ or ‘womanness’ of trans women lately. Since I’ve been digging through memories from my childhood – the images, divorce papers, tapes, and more – for a mémoire and teachable moment using my journey away from white supremacist beliefs, perhaps it’s also best I vent my thoughts on the discovery of self-love in a condensed form.

From the very beginning, my existence was wracked by trauma. While I was still a fetus, my father decided it’d be best to bend my mother’s finger backwards until it snapped during a fight. He had always been an unstable man, and he never really desired a child, and my mother angered him by having the audacity to conceive. He began to warm up to the idea when he thought there could be potential that he’d get a little “girl,” but despite confusing and erroneous sonograms, he did not get his disgusting wish. His little girl was born sealed.

He was the type of man that believed the world was in The End of Days, but he wasn’t a church-goer. He and my mom looked like the typical normal white Christian family on the outside. After all, they allowed a family to live with us when they were down on their luck, and they even gave out sack “lunches” to the homeless out of the back of our van. Surely the environment was as picturesque as the rows of houses with neatly manicured lawns?

That illusion was shattered beyond our walls after I was born. One of my earliest memories was from my “first” Easter at three years old. A family in the neighborhood wanted to host an egg hunt event for all the kids in the neighborhood, and we went over to their house where everything was set up. As soon as it began, it was obvious that the family’s children were overly familiar with the placement of the eggs, and it was all over in a flash. Most of the kids had 0-2 eggs, and the neighbor’s children had a kaleidoscope of color overflowing their baskets. I realized all too soon what had happened after I was searching for an egg, and one of the kids shooed me out of the way to get it himself. I broke down crying, because what else was I going to do? My father became enraged – shook me until I told him what had happened, and then started in on the father of the children. Despite the peacocking and extreme levels of toxic masculinity, my father backed down and we went home. Interactions like that put me and my mother in danger, because the aggression would then be taken out on us instead. He didn’t know how to calm down, and thus we were both sentenced to solitary confinement with Mr. Hyde and his indoctrination.

As I said, my family didn’t go to church. My father was suspicious of pastors and “Christians,” as he believed them to mostly be wolves in sheeps clothing. Christians in Name Only. Instead, he was the preacher. He was the prophet of the house. He was the All Knowing, and we had to ensure that we could keep up with him or be punished. If my mother didn’t seem to be performing her “wifely duties” as “commanded in the Bible,” then he would call her a lesbian, spit on her, and more. It was a war zone from the earliest of days, and the rounds were live. I scarcely recall how many times he read the Good Book to me, both with and without the use of external sources on symbology and historical context (globalist conspiracy books, mostly). Yet, I do remember much of it. I remember laying beside him as he discussed ‘Adam’ and ‘Eve’ and the ‘holy union’ between these two. He used the Bible to explain gender roles and the proper “place” of “men” and “women.” He elaborated with disgust on how “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination unto the Lord our God.” It was a lot to mull over. I know I vaguely understood it, and I still had questions, but even at that age I had long since learned that questions were not exactly what my father wished for. He desired unquestioning obedience. At the time, I didn’t understand why, but colored by the context of knowing he only wanted a girl if any child at all, I now take this to have been his way of grooming me.

I was put into a Christian daycare at about that time, and I had such trouble acclimating to the new environment given the unstable background I came from. I did make friends, but I mostly preferred to play alone with my Hot Wheels cars licked with my mother’s red nail polish for identification. However, the staff had a problem with it – I refused to play in the area for “boys.” I don’t know why I did it, exactly. I just knew that I preferred the company of girls to boys, mainly because of the personality and interest differences. The bullying I experienced from other people gendered & forced to present as “male” only intensified. I didn’t really understand it. That was until one of my friends, another girl in my class, told me that I didn’t act like a boy. I laughed about it and said that I preferred it that way, and she told me that I wasn’t allowed to do that unless I wore dresses and had what she had. That was the first time I became aware that there were actually differences beyond what people labelled one another as and dressed as. I was distraught, and when I would draw myself when asked at school I would draw clothes far too big for a body that was androgynous and uncomfortable.

I was completely unwilling to draw myself naturally as I would at home when I was without supervision, and not long after I made a weak protest to my parents during uniform shopping – “I want to wear what the girls wear.” Only my father heard it, I think, and as his gaze fell upon me I felt my heart freeze. I knew I’d be in trouble that night, and I likely was – but I can’t remember it anymore. When I knew that I couldn’t wear such clothing in public, because I was to be obedient to the All Knowing One (little did I know society at large was no different), I took to dressing in my mother’s things. Literally. In. The. Closet. I felt like I was doing something wrong, because I had been taught all my life not to express myself that way. I’d pretend to put on makeup beside my mother, and despite her cooing about how handsome I was, I felt empty and hurt. Betrayed. Just as I dressed in her clothes at the age of five, I felt hollow. No one was going to tell me that I was both brilliant and pretty like the other girls I spent time around. Only bright and handsome. I learned quickly that even the closet wasn’t safe, probably when my mom was out of the house and I was alone with my dad. He caught me in some of my mom’s boots and a dress, and it threw him into another rage.

I recall his yelling, and I recall him telling me that if I ever wore anything in this closet ever again it better be his stuff, or he’d call down the wrath of God upon me. He screamed at the top of his lungs as he drug me out of the closet by my arm and stripped me down to my underwear that he better never catch me in the closet again, and that’s when the beating started and I dissociated. They’ve been red-shifted beyond the opaqueness of my memories’ boundaries, but the psychological damage from such moments remains. I cried. I prayed every night that God would either take my life or ensure that at puberty I would become a woman and escape the nightmare of my flesh and physical prison. I thought about death a lot at that age – what life would be like in the great Beyond. I wondered if the Bible were true, and if it were all the different ways it could be so. I wondered about the physical realities of the Bible and everything I knew, and I dreamed of ways they could be changed and modified.

Those questions were encouraged by my mother. I was still afraid and distrustful of her due to my father’s unpredictable behavior, but she was showing me all the love she could. When I expressed interest in dinosaurs, she began buying me books on them. When I learned about fossils, I went outside and began digging to look for them. I’d pretend I ran a construction crew of paleontologists and that I was on the hunt for rare finds. I loved to play in the mud and feel it squish between my toes anyway, so having a reason behind it made it feel all the more grand. When the Superconducting Supercollider took my grandparent’s land, she let me read over the discussion of high energy physics experiments that could take place, and she signed me up for magazines, fact cards, and more about all different kinds of scientific topics. We had a computer given to us by my grandparents at about that same age, and I played all kinds of educational games with my mother’s help. Her dream had always been to be a computer programmer, and she had tried her best to get there. She saw me for who I was, a reflection of her, and encouraged my growth even when I was feeling like there was no one listening. For her, I held on.

The stress at that age was as enormous as the amount of data I was trying to consume and process to keep myself from harm. I eventually got into my mother’s books on human anatomy and physiology – that solidified my fear of being “different.” I could see what a person with my genital structure was supposed to turn into, and I couldn’t handle it. I began self-harming, to a certain extent, the object of my disgust. I loved myself and my body, and figured that if I could figure out how to get rid of what I had then things would be okay. I figured there must be some plant or chemical that could change what I had, and I began performing my own experiments. When I found no solace in any of that, I figured the extreme of using scissors would be the best option. I still recall standing on the toilet, my back against my mother’s purple makeup case – the scissors taken directly from there – and just crying as I looked down. I wanted it off and gone. Yet, even then, I knew I couldn’t go through with it – I knew I’d die, and then all hope really would be lost. So, I kept up the faith that God would eventually deliver me from the Valley of Death.

As I approached my sixth year, I began having night terrors. I’d be subjected to hallucinations, unable to move but still able to scream through the fogginess of the paralysis. Sometimes I don’t know if I really was screaming, but most of the time my mother would rush in to check on me as I cried out for her. There was more than a few times that I was too afraid to sleep in my room alone, and so either my mom would either stay and comfort me or take me to their bed. Unfortunately, the nightmare never ends. I would have been safer in my own bed with the “monsters” I could see than with the monster living with us. My mother hand long since stopped giving him everything he wanted after he cheated on her with a woman that wound up dead two weeks after warning my mom to tell my father to stop contacting her. Five years worth of “sexual frustration” was taken out on me, after he thought I was asleep. I remember far too many times that I wish to mention, and more times more vividly than I should have to, but nevertheless I was forced to endure.

I asked him what the difference was between a “man” and a “woman” was, not long after that. He just hollered back to me, “A man does all the work while a woman just lays there.” I was so confused as to what I was. There were too many mixed signals and too much information I did not understand.  On my sixth birthday, a boy I was friends with stayed the night, and the topic of discussion was girls. I confessed that I was confused and that I had a crush on him. We gave each other comfort, or what we thought was comfort after being survivors of CSA. That was when I realized I had some feelings for guys. That only made my personal Hell even worse. I thought that, not only did I not act or feel like a “boy,” but I was also a “fag,” as the majority of boys from the neighborhood called me, and a “filthy homo” from some of the kids in school. The tears at night never stopped. I wished that I had never been born every single night after that. I would pray to God to stop every impure feeling within me, to cleanse me and forgive me, and I would ask Him to unperson me night after night. I wanted to either change or die – just as society wanted with their cries of “conform or die.” “Listen to our hatred and our lies or die.” “Fuck you, you’re what I say, or DIE.”

Shortly after that, I met a girl in the neighborhood that was my age and a similar situation arose between us as with my previous friend, and I knew I liked girls, too. In fact, I realized I enjoyed other women’s company and brilliance far more than anything else. It didn’t help that when I thought of my wedding I thought of myself as a beautiful bride like my mother, but marrying another woman – which I was taught was a sin. Queue tears, remorse, and guilt.

I struggled. I cried. I prayed. Nothing changed. My mother had to fly away to a funeral – I was taken advantage of by an older babysitter as my dad retreated to his room to either smoke crack or pot. Despite how in the wrong she was, it showed me a different side to what a woman could be than how I felt, how my mom was, and all the other girls or women I ever knew. Not long after that, I was finally removed from that environment through the divorce of my parents at seven.

I was constantly sexualized from the earliest of ages, despite my anatomy, mainly because of how my personality was perceived by those interacting with me and because I was a “pretty boy.” I was viewed as something sexually attractive and easy to take advantage of, which is what our current society reduces femininity down to. This forces girls to have a traumatic girlhood, and women to be fearful of anyone and everyone. This is how society polices us and forces us to obey. The domination of the feminine is done through rape, insinuations of rape, and the perpetuation of a culture within which rape can thrive unabated as no repercussions exist. Few people even believe stories like mine, even fewer are able to get someone with power to believe them, and fewer still are able to get any justice done, but I digress.

I wish that the divorce made everything better, but I think that’s only the case when both parties are rational and reasonable. My father would oscillate between stalking behavior and “I love you and still want you.” I had to watch what I said to him and around him, because he was looking for anything to use against us. He wanted to keep me permanently, and he wanted my “heathen” of a mother to no longer exist – a reason he carried an unregistered firearm with him when he’d visit us at my mom’s work. That terrorizing of the only person in my family that ever showed me real love and nurtured me only exacerbated my own dysphoria, because it always felt like an attack on all women including myself. Just like my mother, I didn’t let that shit go past me, either. As best I could, I waged verbal and psychological warfare against my dad every day, and this helped me sharpen my ways of reasoning. I made a few friends at the new place we were staying, all boys much to my vexation, but one of them was unique. I could tell by his manner and way of talking that he was different, and I latched onto him almost immediately. I considered him my “best friend,” and thought he was pretty great. He was really into the Spice Girls, Britney Spears, and other groups like that and he’d sing them for me and get me to sing along. Yet, he also wasn’t afraid to accompany me down to the drainage ditch to go looking for crawdads that lived underneath the moss. So, I was understandably heartbroken when we ceased speaking to each other. He spent the night one night, and he felt comfortable enough to confess to me that he was attracted to other boys, and so I figured that it would be okay to tell him about my secret. I told him I didn’t really know what I was, and that I didn’t feel like a boy and that I felt like a girl, and that I liked girls. He told me I couldn’t ever be a girl, and that it was silly to think that, and that I was just like him. Despite my protests, he continued to argue that I was wrong, and that my feelings were invalid, and that there was no way that could be true. We never spoke again.

School wasn’t any better, either. I was labelled a “discipline problem” as soon as I got into school, because I wouldn’t take the homophobic bullying I experienced. If someone called me a name and made fun of my breasts, for example, I’d talk back. I was in and out of the principal’s office several times from second grade through high school from fighting back against the ridicule that the school administrators and teachers were aware of but made no effort to stop. I learned to defend myself against attacks from know-nothings that wished to do harm. I learned to not take any shit, but to do the least amount of harm, from my own mother that did her best to show she was not going to be pushed around. I watched her build a house into a home, fight back against people taking advantage of her, and fight for me every step of the way when I was subjected to enormous amounts of bullshit being flung by those that belittle “difference” and do not wish to understand it.

It was by age 12 that my breast soreness had resulted in breasts around an A cup. I was teased that I should wear a bra, and often boys would grope or try to pinch. As the boys turned to men, all I got was hair in places I didn’t desire. It was sparse on my face and chest, but I felt like I had been consumed whole. I itched my knees until the skin came off and they began to bleed as I tried in vain to prevent the black snakes from poking up from my garden. I cried. I slammed doors. I asked my mother why she ever had me. I told her I wished I had never been born. I asked God to smite me, fix me, or save me in some way. He did not. My mother held my hand as tears streamed down my face, unable to put into words what I was going through and afraid she wouldn’t understand. I held a knife to my veins. I couldn’t bring myself to slash the porcelain skin I loved – instead I’d press it down deeply until the pain became unbearable and a deep purple mark would stay. I wanted to die, but something in me told me to fight.

Then the transformation ceased. I never had a wet dream, nor did my voice ever change beyond what can be attributed to my normal resonance. I had to deal with people telling me I sounded “too nasally” and “whiny,” all because I didn’t fit as a “man.” The structure of my larynx never changed. It never thickened or became prominent; it stayed stereotypically “feminine,” as did the rest of my body. Despite my libido skyrocketing, I didn’t feel the desire to “mount” only “present.” Sure some outward features and what I was forced to conform to got read as “male,” but it was not an overall effect. I was always an ambiguous “it” to everyone – an oddity for ridicule and the lightning rod of hate to anyone that hated what could be beyond their black and white version of reality. If any “male privilege” existed, I would have a hard time teasing it out from between the layers of being humiliated, verbally assaulted, physically accosted, molested, and more.

I was 17 before I finally found someone that understood my feelings and made me feel like I wasn’t a freak for my body, mannerisms, personality, and everything that made me ME rather than simply a puppet in a mask. I had already found other people like me through online message boards, but this was someone that accepted me and wished to love me romantically. Despite having several relationships that lasted an average of a year or thereabout, it was the first healthy relationship founded upon honesty that I had ever had. By finally finding someone understanding and willing to “get” the reality of it all and treat me the way I wished to be treated rather than some erroneous concept of “how I should be treated,” it was like being born again.

I stopped attending church services. I quit viewing God as out to destroy me, and I began living. No amount of therapy helped me get to that point – only being told that it was okay to accept and love who I was underneath every label other people had put upon me.

I was still somewhat afraid of the potential ramifications of coming out as myself, and it wasn’t until I was 23 that I was able to move beyond the indoctrination the Church And State heaped upon me. It was only then that I was finally step into the world as myself.

The abolition of gender itself would not have saved me, for it was not gender alone that shaped my circumstances. The abolition of both gender and a society that puts the cis male on a pedestal would still not have saved me from the atrocities in my life. This was a byproduct of religious indoctrination that allows people to believe that the lives of other people are their own to judge and control. It’s the result of living in a society that has, for centuries, ensured that women are viewed as nothing more than breeding chattel with the use of the Bible to show how “wicked” women are and how close to “God” males are. It’s the forceful adherence to the Christian doctrine of ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ that distress intersex people like myself. It is these things that oppress women, femininity, and those beyond the binary, not the language (pronouns) we use to respect one another.

I can only speculate on the conditions of a utopia in which I could have been born into free of the shackles of these destructive and unwanted memories. Had men not made God, perhaps I’d still have a father. Perhaps not. Had it not been necessary to concern oneself with genital-themed pink and blue parties, perhaps I could have been more free to explore what I desired rather than what I was forcefully conformed to. Perhaps in that same world, I would have been able to explore Legos, and dig holes, and catch bugs, and dress up in a Pink Power Ranger outfit, and become a dragon-slaying princess. Perhaps in that same world what shape my genitals take wouldn’t matter, and in that same world little intersex babies still being born would be able to decide what gender they preferred in the future, what medical actions (if any) should be taken to make their body feel like theirs, and we’d no longer have unnecessary cosmetic procedures for “purity” like female and male circumcision. Perhaps in that society we would see people as they are rather than what we think they should be due to surface-level evaluations.

Perhaps, someday, we’ll understand love.

Not This $#!T Again! – Texas Anti-Trans Bathroom Legislation

[CN: Bullying, assault, prejudice]

I will be turning this into a video this week, but here’s the rough draft of the transcript early:

As the vibration of cesium marks the passage of time here in the United States, my home state of Texas is marching towards denying civil liberties of many Texans, young and old. With under half of the state being Judgmental Christian, religionist, or otherwise invested in the endeavor of dictating daily lives and growing the size of government, the powers that be in Texas are attempting to force the beliefs of the minority upon the rest. There have been loud rumors about the possibility of a statewide bill affecting minority groups, especially nonpassing or nonbinary transgender individuals. There have already been several cities that have passed their own anti-trans bathroom ordinance, and there have been several others that have had protections for minority groups repealed due to these perverse beliefs.

However, this isn’t much of a surprise to me. I grew up in a small town, one that some might refer to as “rural.” It was pretty average for the area, as far as ideological beliefs go. Kids talked. Adults gossiped. The elderly nagged. It was, and still remains, an excellent breeding ground for ideological indoctrination. Growing up, it wasn’t very difficult for me to pick up on the opinions of others. Whatever the TV or radio was saying was likely to be their thoughts, or whatever they learned from Sunday school that week. The kids were no different. Even if they didn’t pay much attention to the news, they still had their parents to fill them in on what to believe and how to act.

When I was young, I knew to keep my mouth shut. A “boy,” of sorts, that “thought” himself to be a “girl” was something to be disgusted at and corrected, fixed, or abandoned. I recognized this long before I should have, but I had to grow up fast being in such a place. It took a long time before I found a friend that I felt comfortable with opening up to. They were similar to me, or at least I thought they were. Yet, they were a gay cisgender male, and when I revealed how I felt about my life and myself, they recoiled in disgust and told me I couldn’t possibly feel that way. I was eight at the time, and it devastated me. After that day, I didn’t really have much of a friendship with them anymore. I was eight, and I had been devastated. Confused. What made me so different? They acted kind of like me. They liked similar stuff. Yet, they weren’t trans. They couldn’t understand it.

In 5th grade, my body began to change in a variety of ways. It mainly started with accentuation of my torso and the growth of breasts. My body was becoming a confusing mush, to me. It was being pulled in ways that I didn’t like, but at the same time it was being moved to places that I did like. I had already become hesitant to use the restroom, due to my increasing dysphoria and knowledge of how society viewed me. However, sometimes it was necessary. At the school I attended, we were only allowed restroom breaks with the class, unless it was an emergency. These breaks were monitored by a female teacher, which generally meant the boy’s restroom was chaos. I recall going in there one time, and there was a group of kids standing around a urinal. The person trying to do their business was often subjected to physical and mental bullying. I do not remember much about them, even though I tried to get to know them. However, what I do recall is that they had problems at home – financial and probably more. Due to their circumstances, they often came to school with long fingernails, which was strike one against them in the minds of the kids being taught by the religious vultures. He also had long hair, which may have been in part due to the circumstances surrounding his life. The last strike against him was his demeanor. He was timid to the point of shaking, forced to be shy from the constant hate, and had a soft voice. He was the best target for these living bags of trash. The kids standing around him were yelling slurs – calling him a faggot, a sissy, and more. They then began taking turns placing their foot on his butt and pushing him back and forth against the urinal. I wanted to leave, but instead some of them had turned their attention to me. They began to throw insults about cowardice my way, and I was a coward. Not for their reasons, but because I really needed to use the restroom, and these other bigger children were forcing me to make a decision: Press on this kid or be tortured, too.

To appease them, I placed my foot on him, pressed him once, and retreated into a stall. A few cheers erupted from the other kids, and the teacher finally decided that there was too much noise, and began to force everyone out of the restroom. I simply sat in the stall and began to cry. I don’t readily recall if he ever told the teacher, but it didn’t matter.

After that day, I stopped using the restroom breaks. As every other kid filtered into the bathrooms, I waited outside. My teacher took notice, and questioned a few times, but I never revealed the problem. Instead, I halted my fluid intake to make sure I could go all day without using the school’s restrooms. If I REALLY had to go, I still wouldn’t. I would hold it. I would wait until I arrived at my grandmother’s place of work, where I was dropped off after school, and would use the restroom there. Without anyone present.

I couldn’t use the restroom that aligned with my gender identity, nor could I get the assistance required to move towards it. I was afraid of what would happen to me in the ones that didn’t align with my identity. So, I chose either empty bathrooms, gender neutral bathrooms, or I wouldn’t go at all. Often, the choice would be made for me, and it generally resulted in holding on to that fluid waste.

This behavior, this maladaptive coping mechanism as a response to a broken society where the unanalytical push their uninformed opinions, caused me several kidney stones over the years. The lack of hydration, the inability to exist, the lack of facilities that could keep me safe, and more coalesced into some of the most unimaginable pain. It also put me in debt several thousand dollars due to one of the stones being 7 mm and requiring intervention.

This is what this negative behavior results in. This is what coddling special snowflakes that believe their opinions are facts does to children. This is what has been happening for so long in our society, and it’s what will continue to happen as long as we’re okay with letting the vocal minority rule and hijack the megaphone.

Bullying, health problems, and more will befall the children of Texas and any state where this attitude is held in high regard. It must be stopped, and it will be stopped, but only with help of people like you. People that empower themselves. Listen. Know. Understand. Thank you so much for joining me. Stay safe, my witchlings, and know that you are incredible. Until next time, bye~

Destruction of LIBERTY and JUSTICE FOR ALL

YT Link: https://youtu.be/65P0W8gXiKw

[Image Description: A femme individual with long hair and glasses smirks at the camera, with her right fist balled and clasped in her left hand. The title reads “Destruction of Liberty and Justice for All HB2, et. al.”]

Synopsis: It’s the year 2016, and we’re still dealing with religious zealots pushing their agenda into daily life. These same people complain about how Sharia law might one day be over them, completely forgetting the Constitution that they so proudly proclaim to love, all while pushing their own Biblicly-rooted agenda. The majority of us in the United States do not believe the way these people do, but we have allowed their fearmongering about trans individuals to invade culture. This has lead to even more violations of human rights than simply disallowing trans people to use the bathroom appropriate for them. This is who is behind it all…

Transcript: In the Synopsis of Anti-Trans Bathroom Bills, I exposed the general narrative behind these fear mongering campaigns used to get bills like HB2 passed and Houston’s Equal Rights Ordinance repealed. As always, there are many more layers to the story. So, let’s peel some of them back to see how this isn’t just problematic for trans individuals, but rather anyone that does not adhere to this particular ideology.

The bill from North Carolina was passed off under the name of “Public Facilities Privacy and Security Act,” but did nothing to protect or secure individuals in public facilities or elsewhere. In fact, it was a response to an equal rights ordinance in the city of Charlotte that prohibited business from discriminating on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity, and allowed trans individuals to self-identify and use facilities that were most appropriate for them.

As a trans individual, I can say from experience that there is literally no one in our demographic that would be willing to expose themselves to the statistical likelihood of harassment, injury, or death. Trans individuals that may be dealing with dysphoria, social anxiety, or other obstacles resulting from living in such a bias society would never dream of walking into a bathroom that doesn’t match their presentation. Individuals will choose bathrooms based on their feelings, their appearance, and where they think will be most safe for them. As I’ve said before, the only “men in femme spaces” that have caused problems have been cisgender men and cisgender men only. Putting their issues with controlling themselves and their inability to function in society on us is absurd. But I digress..

The people behind these bills do not want anyone to believe that. They require the fear of rape culture perpetuated by cisgender men to push their agenda that’s rooted deep within the Bible. Who could desire to push such a God-fearing pious agenda? The campaign advisors for Ted Cruz’s council for religious liberty. Yes, in 2016, that is a thing. We’re marching towards theocracy, but we can discuss that some other time. The Benham brothers, David and Jason, are identical twins. Both of them graduated from Liberty University, a private non-profit Christian university with staunch Southern Baptist fire-and-brimstone leanings. In fact, the university teaches young Earth creationism as science, and has been criticized many times as being a sham of an institution.

These two brothers are prominent Christian leaders in North Carolina and staunch anti-LGBTQIA+ advocates. They believe their show that was due to air on HGTV was cancelled due to the “gay agenda” rather than their disgusting stances regarding basic human rights. These people claim that abortion rights, Islam, and the “homosexual agenda” are part of the “demonic forces at work” here on Earth. Essentially, they are delusional cisgender males attempting to push their own religion as the one true religion, and make everyone abide by it.

I also said EVERYONE. As I stated before, this was never just about trans people. The wording of HB2 limits people’s rights to pursue claims of discrimination based on race, religion, color, national origin, biological sex, or disability. It also disallowed cities from setting minimum wage standards for private employers.

It claimed to desire to “establish statewide consistency in laws related to employment and contracting,” and provide rules regarding “single-sex multiple occupancy bathrooms and changing facilities in school and public agencies.” This bill is actually a combination of several bills – Religious Freedom and Anti-Trans Bathroom Legislation. It is one of the most comprehensive and devastating to many demographics that are not cisgender, white, heterosexual, or financially secure.

Oh, and should I even mention that they define biological sex as “the physical condition of being male or female as listed on the person’s birth certificate?” Everyone does know we do not check chromosomes or other biological markers to determine that, right? So, we can stop having that conversation, yeah?

One could also even discuss how this narrative of protecting white women and children has been repeated since the Europeans decided to start taking the land of indigenous peoples of North America. How it has been used time and time again to destroy life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for anyone that wasn’t Christian, white, cisgender, and heterosexual. This story has been used to justify torture, genocide, and unethical treatment in general for as long as Europeans have desired to make themselves appear superior.

Perhaps that’s something to discuss some other time.. For now, remember: If the shoe fits, wear it. Don’t get upset at the facts or how they are presented – examine what you believe, and see why you feel that cognitive dissonance in the first place. You just might find you have some gunk left to clean out of your mind to get to a place that’s better for everyone.

I hope that you stay safe, witchlings. Know that you are incredible, and I appreciate you. Thank you for joining me, and don’t forget to check out my social media for more discussions. Subscribe, if you’d like to stay up-to-date with my videos, and thank you so much for watching. Until next time, bye!~