Zimzir and the Dragon, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Zimzir and the Dragon

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Before Word

Being friends with a dragon takes some getting used to.  For one thing their digestive systems are always rumbling like an old car.  When they burp, which is often, foul smelling smoke comes out of both ends, and little spurts of fire sometimes ignite nearby curtains or sofas.  Another thing is that they sometimes eat people which is hard to explain to the authorities when they come looking for said eaten person.

However there are many benefits of being friends with a dragon.  For example, they eat people—people who are bullying you or harassing you, which really cuts down on being bullied when word spreads that people who pick on you end up disappearing, leaving only a few bits of hair and sneakers behind.  Another benefit is that they burp, and foul-smelling smoke comes out of both ends—which is another good deterrent for bullies—as are the little spurts of flames aimed at particularly sensitive areas on bullies.

You might be wondering why I have so many bullies flocking around me.  You see, I am trans—transgender.  And I’m a kid.  I was born nine years ago and everyone thought I was a boy.  And even though I was born with the parts that would make some people assume I was a boy, I am a girl, and I know I’m a girl.  My parents know now as well—after years of me insisting on wearing dresses they finally got it.  Not that dresses defines being a girl, but my folks are old-fashioned.

I am one of the lucky ones.  My parents both accept me.  I also have friends who do as well.  It wasn’t always that way though, and when I first came out things, shall we say, got ugly.  And that’s where being friends with Harbor came in handy.  Yes, Harbor is my friend dragon, and he does by ‘he.’  My name is well, we’ll get to that, and this is the beginning of many beginnings and the end of many endings and the beginning of many endings and well, you get the idea.

 

Zimzir and the Dragon.

As I said, my parents were told I was a boy when I popped out on a cold winter morning in January.  My parents named me, “Joseph.”  It was an OK name, except it didn’t fit.  At first, I didn’t understand why it didn’t fit. It just didn’t.  Sort of like accidentally putting both legs into a pair of pants.

My parents were pretty OK though, and so I began to grow up, or, well, as I like to think of it—grow down.  You see, I always felt like I was an alien or something.  Like I came from up there in space somewhere.  I just felt different from the earthlings around me.  And so, it took me a few years to come down, so to speak into this body I didn’t want or ask for.

When I was a toddler (which is a really funny word if you think about it) I used to toddle to the laundry basket (my family did do laundry, but always left the clean laundry in a basket in my parent’s room, and I knew this, so I would, as I said, toddle to it, and then, with some effort, toddle over and into it, sort of like a misguided cat).  Once in the basket I would do an artistic little dance as I sat there on the clean laundry with quite possibly a stinky diaper, which consisted of me throwing clothes around the room while I sang (the artistic little dance, that is, not my diaper).  “Sang” isn’t quite the right description of the vocalizations that came out of my mouth. My singing was more like cows yodeling.

While in the laundry basket I used to fish out the “women’s” clothes and wrap them around my head.  Then I would giggle and slobber into them.

And here I want to say that, of course, clothes (and toys, for that matter) (and well, anything for that matter, especially kids) (unless they want to be) should not be gendered.  So, I put “women’s” clothes in those little quotation mark thingies just to let you know I think it’s absurd that people think there is such a thing as “women’s” clothing.  For the rest of this story, however, I am not going to use quotation marks, mainly because they are annoying.  Trust though, whenever I mention women’s clothes or boy’s clothes, I mean (with a big roll of my eyeballs) (eyeballs is also a funny word) that I mean “women’s” clothes and “boy’s” clothes.

As I grew down some more, I used to go into my parent’s room and not only fish out my mom’s clothes, but I try it on and parade around the house. This made my mother laugh and my dad yell.

“Take those off, Joseph.  Those are girl’s clothes.  You’re a boy,” he would say.

To which mom would say: “Oh, honey he’s just pretending.”

To which I would say to myself: “No, I’m not.  These clothes might be too big for me now, but they are the kind of clothes I want to wear forever.”  And then I would take them off and treat them as if they were threaded with gold, and fold them up neatly and put them back in the laundry basket.

One day, when I was around seven, I was at my cousin, Annabelle’s house, and I stole one of her dresses and wore it to school the next day.  I felt so proud and happy.  It felt like I was wearing cool, refreshing sunshine.

Sitting in the principal’s office after getting sent there by my teacher for causing a ruckus in class just because I was wearing a dress, was the first time I remember wishing I had never been born.  “This sucks,” I thought, “I just want to be myself and everyone either gets mad or thinks I’m a joke.”

And while waiting for my mom to come bring me a change of clothes, I heard Harbor for the first time.

I say, “heard,” because the first thing I heard was a fart.  I looked around the office.  No one else was there but me.  Upon sniffing however, I knew someone, or something—judging by the intensity of the fart-smell—was with me.

Then I heard a burp and saw a little burst of smoke and flame appear in the middle of the room near the ceiling.  I jumped and let out a little scream.

“It’s alright,” said a voice that sounded like gentle thunder.  It was a sound that soothed me and resonated through my lungs, “It’s just me, Harbor.”

“Hhh-Hhh,” was all I could manage to say. I sort of sounded like I was practicing dramatic exhales.

“Harbor,” the voice said again, causing a little storm to wave pleasantly through my heart.

“Harbor?” I said, “But, where are you?”

“Right here,” came the voice.  And then, there—right there—in Principal-Poopy-Pant’s office (not his real name) (unfortunately), the air in front of me began to shimmer and quiver and take form and color and weight, and as it did, a dragon appeared before me—large, aqua green with purplish markings and wings folded neatly against the ceiling.

“You’re a dragon,” I sputtered, and my mouth, if it could have, would have opened down enough to hit the floor.

“Yup,” he said, “so I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am here for you.”

“For me?” I gulped.  “Like, here to eat me?”

“Oh no,” said the dragon.  “I am here to be your companion.  If you will allow me, that is.”

“Why do you want to be my companion?  Do I need one?”

“Because I want to be.  I know what it’s like to not be accepted for who you know you really are.”

“You do?”

“Yes.  And ‘yes’ to your other question.  We all need companions sometimes, and you have an especially challenging journey ahead, and I am offering my services.”

“Services?” I asked.

“I will be your protector; guardian angel, if you will.”

“I see,” I said, “I’m not sure what to say.  I mean, here I am, in trouble again, talking to a dragon.  I’m not sure how I feel about that or having a protector—let alone a dragon protector.  I’ve always had to protect myself.  I’m used to it, even when I do a crumby job at it.”

“I see,” said the dragon, “are you saying you would rather me go?”

I hesitated a moment, and then said, “Yes.  I have always felt alone and that’s sort of how I like it—or at least, sort of like how I’m used to it.”

“That’s fair,” Harbor said, “I’ll just be going then.” And the dragon began to dissolve into the air.

“Wait,” I said, standing up for the first time since this encounter began, “can I change my mind?  You know, if I decide later I want a companion, can you, I mean, will you, still be there?”

“I’m sorry,” the dragon said, pausing in mid-disappearing into thin air, “I may not be here for you.  There are many like you who need protecting.  However, someone will always be there for you, even it isn’t me.”

And as I stared hard into Harbor’s eyes and saw nothing but oceanic light, and kindness, and wisdom, and a sly sense of humor, I found myself saying: “Wait, please.  Stay.  Actually, being alone kind of sucks.  Well, not all the time. Sometimes I love being alone and need to be alone and wish I could be alone forever, but in general, I have no one who accepts me as me, and you seem to.  So, will you stay?”

With that Harbor fully materialized into the office again and lowered its great head down to eye level and said: “It would be an honor.  And now, what shall I call you?”

I looked at the ground and shuffled my feet. “Well, my given name is ‘Joseph,’ but that’s not the name I want or call myself.”

“Well,” Little One in the Beautiful Dress, what would you like to be called?”

I looked up at Harbor and couldn’t believe I was about to tell someone the name I had always treasured secretly in my heart.

“It’s OK,” Harbor said, “you can tell me later.  On your time.  Always on your time.”

His voice rumbled gently through me.

“Besides,” he said, “we have work to do here.  We need to get you out of this pickle the limited minds of the grown-ups around you have put you.”

“How?” I said.

“Watch,” Harbor said and winked, and then, shimmered into invisibility, but not before breathing a little puff of fire and placing it on my head where it disappeared into me like warm apple cider. And before I could say a thing, Principal Poopy Pants came out of his office.

“Your dad is here,” he said, “and he’s not happy.”

Just then, the office door opened and in stormed my father, jeans and a t-shirt in hand.

“What were you thinking, young man?” he said, lifting me from the chair by my arm.  “Why do you do this?  I don’t get it.  It’s infuriating. Why do you want to dress like a girl?”

“Because I am a girl,” I found myself shouting, my whole body feeling as if it was filled with some kind of strange, warm power.

“You are not a girl!” my dad and the principal shouted together.

“Yes, she is,” said Harbor appearing suddenly in the room, smoke and ribbons of flame streaming from his flaring nostrils, his voice thundering.

My dad and Principal Poopy Pants leapt into each other’s arms and turned around to look at Harbor.  They screamed like frightened sheep.

“Get this into your heads,” Harbor said, lowering his own to meet their terrified eyes, “If you still want to keep your heads.  She is a girl.  She feels better in dresses.  Accept her for the truth of who she knows herself to be, or else.”  And he puffed a burst of smoke around their heads.  They coughed and tried to wave the smoke aside.

“But,” my dad began.

“But nothing,” Harbor growled.

“But…that’s my son, my son Joseph.”

“That’s not my name!” I shouted, and I felt like my words were smoke and fire.

Harbor puffed out a little flame that came inches from my dad’s nose. “Don’t,” said Harbor, pausing before growling the rest of his sentence, “Ever. Call. Her. That. Again.”

“But,” my dad attempted.

And then Harbor roared a roar that shook the furniture in the room.  “No buts!” He bellowed.

“OK…OK,” my dad said.  And then he looked at me, “This is going to take some getting used to.”

“Then get used to it,” Harbor said.

“Yeah,” I said, “Get used to it.”

I had never sassed my dad before, but instead of getting mad, he bent down and looked at me, gently putting his hands on my shoulders.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I think somehow I’ve always known, but I was afraid of what others would think, what people at church would say, what your friends or grandparents would say.  But, if this is who you are, then I accept you, and will do everything I can to help you feel accepted.  I never want you to feel wrong about being who you are.  I’m so sorry.”

It was the first time I ever saw tears in my father’s eyes.  I teared up too, and so did Harbor, who sniffled out a little fart scenting the room with, well, dragon fart smell, which was a lot like burnt toast, not altogether unpleasant, like the smell of horse poop that smells like mowed grass and straw.

“Now,” my father said, still holding my shoulders and wiping a tear from my eye, “what would you like to be called?”

I bowed my head and then lifted it up proudly and looked first at Harbor and then at my father.  “My name,” I said, with all the power of a phoenix rising from the flames, “is Zimzir.”

My dad smiled and stood up and turned to Principal Poopy-Pants.  “Mr. Poopy Pants,” he said (and I burst out laughing), “This is my daughter Zimzir.  She likes this dress and she is going to stay in it and you and your school are going to everything in your power to help her feel accepted.  Educate the students, teachers, parents.  That’s your job. So, do it.”

“Yes,” added Harbor, breathing fire tinged smoke around the principal’s head, “Do it.”

Principal Poopy Pants shook his head like a bobble head in a car on a bumpy road.

And so, my father walked me back to my classroom, opened the door, looked at the teacher and then the other students seated at their desks.

“People,” he said like a warrior announcing the arrival of a princess, “this is may daughter, Zimzir. Whatever you may have thought of her before, this is who she is and if any of you have a problem with that you will have to deal with me.”

“And me,” said Harbor snaking his great, scaly head into the room.

The class and teacher screamed and Harbor winked at me and then disappeared.

The other kids shook their heads not knowing if what they just saw or heard was real.

My dad looked down at me and said: “You want to stay here…Zimzir, or would you like to go for some ice cream?”

“I want to stay,” I said, looking up at him and smiling, “let’s get ice cream after school.”

“You got it,” he said and turned to go pointing his finger at the teacher and class.  “Remember what I said,” he warned.

And as I walked proudly to my desk, I looked out the window and saw Harbor.  He looked like he was about to fart.  The classroom windows were open.  He got up real close to the window and winked at me.  I plugged my nose.  I knew what was coming.  I sat down, smiled at him and knew I was me.  Zimzir.  And I, Princess Zimzir had a protector forever.

 

Afterword:

We may not all have a dragon as a friend, or parents who accept us.  We can dream though, and we can do our best to be ourselves in however form that takes, and in however time that takes—even if it takes a lifetime.  We need to do what is best and safest for us.  And since not all of us have dragons, may we all be Harbors for one another—safe places we can go when we need understanding, support, love, laughter, and a place we can burp and fart with wild abandon.  May we all be dragons and protectors for one another.  May we lift each other up and take care of one another.  And if you’re reading this and you’re not trans, then accept your kid, accept your friend, accept your relative.  Or else. I know someone hungry just waiting for you to make the wrong move.  Live your faith.  Be a parent.  Be a friend. Be an ally.  Be a Harbor and breathe fire for the sake of people like me.

 


 

 

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On My Second Birthday of Coming Out As Trans, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

On My Second Birthday of Coming Out As Trans

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro
I have four birthdays. The first being my “belly button” birthday—January 7th, 1968. The second being that April morning in 2015 when I realized in full conscious that I am transgender (I am not sure of the exact date, which is incredibly annoying—so I am going to pick, April 1rst. Not for the reasons you might automatically be thinking. Back in 2015, the International Day of Hope fell on April first—that’s why I’m picking it). My third birthday is the day I came out publicly—to the whole world—no more hiding—anything—ever: September 18, 2015. And finally, October 11, 2015—the day I started taking t-blockers and estrogen.

Two years ago today I posted a note on FB and on my blog. It’s a quaint, naive, defensive sort of note—filled with idealism, early forays into activism, my usual flare for the corny, and yeah, a big reveal. Most of you know the devastating fall out that note had on my life and the life of my family. With your help, however I carried through my last year as a teacher, loving every moment I got to be with those kids. I also saw the end of a marriage, the sale of a house, the moving into an apartment (twice in 3 months) alone, and the death threats, the relatives and friends who stopped talking to me, the people pissed I made this announcement on FB and my blog instead of telling them individually (yeah, that would have gone over well and not been the least bit emotionally exhausting), the meetings at school with angry parents, and also, the utter joy at freely walking through the world as I was always meant to. And THAT was a kind of blessing that is hard, even for me, to put into words.

Last year I posted a very depressing first coming-out birthday note. And as much as I spoke of being depressed that first year, little did I know the depression would worsen to the point of being life-threatening. Over the course of that first year—with all the difficult (to say the least) and naively unexpected life-changes, I careened shortly thereafter, into a severe and total breakdown with multiple hospital stays for suicidality. Looking back on my coming out letter, last year’s letter, and this–and you will notice depression has been with me the entire time. That’s because I am clinically depressed. I was born with depression, the same way someone is born with any other physical illness. It goes with me where ever I go. I say that to say, my suffering from depression isn’t because I’m trans. Being trans and coming out worsened my symptoms–yes, for sure–but the illness called, depression, has always been with me–since my earliest childhood days.

Which brings us to today. It has taken me a year to even truly begin to feel somewhat stable mentally and emotionally, and I am still not out of the woods as far as a recovery from this latest flare up of symptoms from my depression. And yes, fall is coming, and winter, and yeah, I usually go through those seasons chipper as a jar of glitter at a Pride parade…The difference this year though is that I am getting help from so many fronts—professionally, medically, therapeutically, spiritually, emotionally, and for all that I am, with trepidations, hopeful this year’s symptoms won’t be so extreme.

So here I am: two years old. Through all the changes, depression, dysphoria, unemployment, calls from debt-collectors, lonely days and nights in my hovel, I have also had moments—glimpses and full visions of salvation, community, love, hope, and the peace and electricity that come from living one’s truest self–my self–me. Who I am. Not who I was born to be–I was born this way–a woman–a transgender woman–but who I am meant to live openly as the way I was truly born.

Yes, I am scared about the upcoming fall and winter. Yes, I am still unemployed and, in all clarity, not mentally fit enough to be working a “real” job yet. I am also getting better. I also have a church community I never knew I’d find—friends that support and love me in ways only real friends can do. There is reason for hope, and you are one of those reasons. My ex and our children still love and accept me and that, of course, is key.

Last year I ended my first birthday note with a toast to a smoother year. We all know that smoother didn’t exactly manifest. So, I won’t toast to that this year. I won’t toast to anything. I don’t drink anyway.

What I will say is this: Thank you. Thank you for your love and support. For being there in my darkest moments and my silliest sillies, and my most wondrous of wonders.

I am here. I am myself in a way that was simply more conscious and alive that I was before I came out, and for that, despite all the challenges—I am eternally grateful.

Happy birthday to me. I love me. I love you.

1vliof


 

 





Catching Myself, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Catching Myself

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Lately I have been thinking

When I was young I would

Buy butterfly nets, or make them,

And then go chasing after those delicate,

Powder-winged beings.

I swooped my net down,

Across, zig zag—anything to

Snatch a butterfly in midflight,

And when I captured one,

As gently as I could, I removed it

From the net, held it cupped in my hands,

Felt it tickling my palms

With fear-filled wings,

Examined its face, legs, and abdomen—

Resisting the traumatized impulse

To dog-ear its wings,

And then I would let it go

Like I was offering it to the world,

Like I was doing something kind,

Like I had every right to disturb

The life and heartbeat of these most

Cosmological beings, and then,

I would look at my hands

And see stains of pigment

Smudged on my palms—

It made me feel guilty,

It made me feel cruel,

And it made me feel like,

Just once, I had some form

Of beauty glittering inside me

as I fluttered into the waiting, stormy sky.

 

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Soldiers Died For People Like Me, a Memorial Day Message, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Soldiers Died For People Like Me,

A Memorial Day Message

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Memorial Day must suck for the extremist right-wing-white men in our country.

They get all emotional on this day for all the fallen soldiers. And for good reason.

However, they need to understand those fallen soldiers fought for the rights of people on the #LGBTQIA spectrum. They fought for the rights of women, minorities, the poor, the uninsured, Planned Parenthood, senior citizens, and all the Muslims living in our country, and the environment, the right to impeach a barbarian president.

The alt-right white “christian” KKK-loving men can’t get around this truth. And it must really piss them off.

Of course, some of wars were unjust, wrong, a political pawn. Some however, were not. Some, I suppose, needed to be fought.

Thinking of those people who died to help keep America safe, we need to remember they died for people like me.

 

easter me

 

 

 


 


Any donations specifically from this post will be in turn, donated to Veteran’s Mental Health Programs. <3


Some Thoughts on the Gender Binary and Everything Else in Between, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Some Thoughts on The Gender Binary

And Everything Else

In Between

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

What I am about to share is going to piss somebody off.  Seems that way about most everything I say nowadays.  However, if you truly have faith in your God, or you truly have faith in who you are as human being, then what you are about to read should not be threatening to anything you believe or experience.  This is not to say that what I have written here is perfect.  Far from it.  Language barriers, prejudices, and fears—yours and my own– make that impossible.  Let’s get on with it.  I am ready for the mean, hateful, harmful, and trolling comments from “both” sides (and “both” is in quotations because well, you’ll see). I am also ready for nice comments.  I am inviting them too. I hope.

I will give you that the idea of the binary exists.  I know, many scientists today say the gender binary doesn’t exist in the ways we’ve traditionally thought, and I totally support their findings.  That said, the idea of polarities exists. It is seemingly everywhere—day and night, cold and hot, light and dark, rainy days and clear days, fire and water, sky and earth.  Having given you that, you will inevitably need to give me, that there isn’t, and never will be, a truly individuated or separate representation or living form that will ever exist on the opposite ends of the binary.  For the opposite ends of the binary are only ideas, even if they are created by God. If this scares you, then so must the idea of the morning, or of the evening, or rainbows, or singing.

The opposite ends of the binary only exist to overtake the other—swallow it up, merge within in it, into and unto, itself—not in battle, never forced—but in dance and song, and flavor.  That is the miracle, that is the beginning of all things.  The purpose of the binary is not to separate, but to join, merge, and hence, create.

No one can imagine the idea of the opposites without seeing, feeling, experiencing, knowing, or witnessing that they are all in some relationship with the other.

Go ahead, stand on the earth without forever being also in the sky.  Be in the middle of a perfectly sunny day and not know that evening is already on its way.  Step into a pool that you want not too hot and not to cold.  You get what I’m saying.

Having given you that the binary exists as theoretical reference points (I know, I know, the Bible says God created male and female and it also says: Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones,” or, “God brought them out of Egypt; he hath as it were the strength of an unicorn.”   I know, I know, you can take a verse of the Bible and use it to back up even the most outlandish ideas.  Like this one: “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear. Serve them sincerely as you would serve Christ.”  I know you can take the fact that God killed about 25 million people in the Bible to represent the killing of our unbelief or to justify the slaughter of unbelievers, but then again, so do some Muslims).  It is high time and low time, to grasp and let go, once and for all, and forever anew, the idea that the front of a coin can be separated from the back.  They exist because of one another and because of what they manifest—and in the case of human existence—they manifest all that is wonderful (not the coins themselves, but what they represent, well, not what they represent, but what they demonstrate).

Cold is nothing unless heat exists.  Up means nothing without down.  Music is only heard in silence. Purple only arises between shades of blue and shades of red. Death prowls and life blooms.  It is the space between them that brings forth all things; where all things wondrous, flavorful, truthful (yes, truthful), and just plain living—exist.  It is in the mingling where the fun begins.

Two people do not have sex in order to annihilate the other.  They have sex to blend together, breathe and gasp together, come together.  It is this joining of bodies, souls, hearts, and minds that brings forth life.

I know, I just got done saying the opposite ends of the binary only exist to overtake the other.  Remember what I also said—the true opposite ends of the binary do not exist except in theory.  You will never find them in life—no man is ever just a man—he has his “feminine” side.  No woman is ever just a woman.  She will have her “masculine” side.  God becomes the mother hen to keep us safe under his wings.  No night is ever not slipping into day.

And that is my point.  Living is in the union.  Fun is in the merging.  Wonder is in the rainbow.  Beauty is in the evening sky.

So please, just as you cannot deny the idea of the binary, you cannot deny the existence of infinite variety, or of the intricate, heavenly, ever-expanding spectrum between the opposite ends of that binary.

I know, there are flaws in what I say.  Language makes things messy and muddles meaning up. You can easily take my words and use them to prove the exact opposite of what I am saying.  That being what it is—you cannot lose sight (well, you can out of your own shadowy, shame-based fears—and we all have them) that all the good stuff lives within and on and with and along a spectrum.  And nothing in between threatens the existence of the binary. The binary will always be the idealized ideas of opposites in the same way day and night will be always be idealized ideas of opposites.  I do not use the word “idealized” to mean better.  I mean it to say, the ultimate opposite ends of the spectrum only exist as ideas.  They never truly manifest, one without the other.

Go ahead, flip a coin.  Not only does it rise, tumbling upwards into the air, it also tumbles down landing on either heads or tails—and these will never exist one without the other—front and back. But I said that already, and I will say it again, at risk of being repetitive (the crusty idea of the idealized binary has been repeated for eons, but so has the idea that God creates souls to burn them in hell, or that the earth is flat, or that slavery is ever a human thing to do). So, I repeat:

It is the stuff that exists along the spectrum that is most intensely alive.  It is the dance between stillness and movement, music and silence, light and darkness, male and female, death and life that makes existence wonderful.  We are born, we die, and it is the living in between that gives either of these meaning (and please don’t think I am associating masculinity with light and darkness with femininity. Remember, however, that language is goofy.  Then again, feel free to associate anything with anything—you’ll get a good idea of how you live your life).

The spectrum is undeniable, and completely, and utterly, wondrously, beautiful, vibrant, and living.

So please do not tell me I do not exist as a transgender person.  I am a living arc–a living rainbow “across” genders. Please do not tell my queer friends, non-binary friends, asexual friends, and so on—that they do not exist.  We are the beauty and meaning of the ideas of so-called, male and female.  We are what is meant to be celebrated because the true opposites will never exist in form.  Murder is not always bad or the Christian religion would mean nothing.  Rebellion is not always bad or else freedom would not exist.  This is not relativism. This is reality.  No one loves without a hint of hate.   No one prays without a hint of doubt.

People like me are the rainbows, we are the mornings and evenings, we are that place where stars and darkness dance.  We are the perfect temperature for swimming.  We are the space between inhaling and exhaling.  We are the glorious existence of form.  And we include all gender identities, all gender expressions, every gender preferences, every rainbow, every song, and every breath.  And so then, we include you.

Do not fear the rainbow.  Go find it, and take out your phones and snap pictures of it.  Give thanks to Goddess for it. Take a selfie with it in the background.  It is a sign that God will never again destroy the earth with a flood—a flood of ignorance, fear, bigotry, or hatred.  The rainbow is the spectrum that blooms from the skies of our souls.

 

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When Mother’s Day Doesn’t Quite Fit, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

When Mother’s Day Doesn’t Quite Fit

 

By

 

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

As I was reminded at church today, Mother’s Day may be hard for some people. Some, like me, have lost their mother’s–in my case, six years ago. And while I can still celebrate her life she isn’t physically present to go out to lunch with or something like that. Others never had a mother–in the sense of one being present in their lives. Others couldn’t have children and desperately wanted to. Others have lost their children to miscarriages or other tragedies. Still others have had mothers who were abusive or negligent. And still others have a strained relationship with their mothers, and some mothers have a strained relationship with their children.

There are also people like me–people who lived most of their parenting lives as “Dad.” I will always be Dad to my kids–I know I was a father to them and I am glad for that. I am also their mother. So, for me, Mother’s Day is very special. I get to parent in a whole new way and in the same ways I did before coming out. Luckily for me my kids are amazingly supportive and I have already received Mother’s Day greetings from them. However, I am also one of those people who has always (even before coming out as trans) ached to be able to have children—I was always deeply envious of pregnant mothers. I have always ached to be able to nurse a child. I have come to accept neither of these things will ever happen–and I am no less a mother. So, to all the non-binary “Moms” or people who act as mothers to others–regardless of their gender. Happy Parent’s Day to you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the people out there who mother other people’s children—teachers, nurses, doctors, librarians.  Blessings to all the foster moms and moms who have adopted children from around the world or their own communities.

And to all the grandmothers and aunts who have taken on the role of mother again because of special circumstances.  Blessings to all the grandmothers who simply get to grandmother grandchildren, and do so with wisdom.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the single Dads who serve as mothers all day, everyday.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the people who have consciously chosen to not bear or raise children.  I am willing to bet there is someone or something in your life that you mother, and do so with grace, dignity, and love–be that a pet, a plant, a poem, or a person.

And of course, Happy Mother’s Day to ourselves–no matter who we are–for we all, one day, must begin, and never stop, mothering ourselves. It is just the way that it is–we all become our own mother’s one day–giving birth over and over again to ourselves.

To wrap up I would like to lift up all those for whom Mother’s Day is a hard day. Your soul and spirits are Mothers. You have been mothered by the world. You are Mothers of the world.

And also grieve, or be angry. Seek safe support to be with you today as you move through any difficult or challenging feelings and memories.

You are loved. You are special. And you are held in the hands of Mother Gaia.

 

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Thank you for your support.  All donations go to medical expenses and groceries. <3


Transitioning, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Transitioning

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

In the first place,

To begin with,

The first thing to remember,

By all means,

In light of,

In any event,

Moreover,

Then again,

To clarify,

As a matter of fact,

Until now,

As you can see,

When,

Surprisingly,

To put it differently,

Sooner or later,

Suddenly,

Altogether,

Coupled with,

Beyond,

Similarly,

Of course,

Next,

Now,

In detail,

Accordingly,

In the final analysis,

Together with,

For this intention,

For this in mind,

Here and there,

Alongside,

Be that as it may,

Again,

And again,

Nevertheless,

In reality,

To be sure,

I am,

Uniquely,

Granted, that,

In the same fashion,

That is to say,

I am whole,

For one thing,

I am here,

In like manner,

Owing to,

Being that,

As well as anyone,

I am,

Equally important,

At the same time,

Furthermore,

Above all,

I am here,

In essence,

All in all,

Here,

Regardless,

No matter,

I am here,

In the long run,

All in all,

Surprisingly,

Transitioning,

Here.

 

easter me

 

 


 

 




All donations go to medical expenses and groceries.  Thank you for your support. <3

A Light Hearted and Heavy Hearted Incomplete List of Common Traits Shared by TransPeople Like Myself, Based Mostly on Empirical Data, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

A Light-Hearted and Heavy-Hearted

Short and Incomplete List of Common Traits

Shared by TransPeople

Like Myself

Based Mostly on Empirical Data

By Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

These are not in any particular order, and yes, of course, cisfolks can have some of these traits too, but who cares. This list is not meant to separate us or further stereotype us.  It is meant as affirmation, celebration, and interesting information.

 

 

We like sci-fi.

We like video games—playing them, creating them.

We like memes and GIFS—creating them, posting them, reading them.

Many of us are often on the spectrum—the autism spectrum.

We are incredibly creative—artistically, musically…

We are often gifted writers.

We are kind, generous, and fiercely loyal.

We are activists, both by birth and by choice.

We have amazingly fabulous fashion sense.

We are survivors.

We are resilient.

We have fantastic taste in music.

Many of us are highly empathic to the point of being empaths.

Many of us like animation—anime, manga. Stephen Universe, etc.

We are extremely intelligent.

We can hold and cherish and protect the truth better than almost anyone.

We are often musicians.

Many of us love animals—cats, dogs, rats, hedgehogs, reptiles, etc.

Many of us know how to experience fear and keep going anyway.  And those that don’t someday will.

Some of us belong to pagan, wiccan, or some other more “earthy” type of spiritual tradition.

Many of us have youtube channels intended to help, inspire, support, and educate trans and non-trans.

Many of us are asked invasive or inappropriate questions.

Many of us are made to feel like we need to prove and/or justify that we exist.

Many of us get stared at when we are out in public.

Some of us carry mace when going out alone.

Many of us have been threatened, harassed, assaulted, demonized, and rejected, and yet we still hold true to the truth of who we are.

Many of us experience severe anxiety and fear when out in public and have to use the bathroom.

Too many of us have been murdered for who we are, and by too many, I mean one is too many.

Too many of us take our own lives because of bullying, nonacceptance, stress, and fear, and by too many I mean one is too many.

Some of us struggle with deep dysphoria; some of us do not.

Some of us exist in hiding for years, decades, or even our entire lives.

Some of us struggle with loving our bodies, our voices, certain body parts., etc; some of us do not.

Some of us hate our lives and names before coming out; some of us do not.

Some of us LOVE wearing makeup, binders, etc.; some of us do not.

Many of us have at least one ally (and often more than one) in our corner.

Many of us have different hair colors than the common brown, black, or blond.

Many of us do not have access to healthcare.

Many of us have family members who reject us.

Many of us have at least one or two family members who accept us.

Many of us are unemployed and/or find it extremely difficult finding a job.

Many of us are living in poverty.

Some of us are forced to live on the streets.

Some of us choose to be sex workers for survival and to save money for surgeries (and yes, some choose to be sex workers because we like it).

Many of us seek various forms of surgeries or procedures to help make ourselves more comfortable in our true gender.   Many do not.  Most cannot due to finances and/or lack of healthcare.

Some of us have passing as one of our goals; some of us do not.

Most of us are utterly hilarious and have a great sense of humor (albeit sometimes, wry, dark, or jaded).

Many of us are “TransWhoVians”—transpeople who like Dr. Who.

All of us fucking rock.

All of us are amazing.

All of us are living lights.

All of us matter.

All of us are just plain human (except those from other planets).

All of us are brave even when we’re afraid.

All of us need to stick together.

All of us need to know there is no one way, or right way, or wrong way to be trans.

What traits can you add to this list?

 

 

 


 

 

 




All donations go towards food and medical expenses.  Thank you for your support.

TransHaiku (Transgender-Inspired Haiku) by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Some TransHaiku

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Look in the mirror,

The self you’ve always wanted,

The rebirth is now.

 

*

 

What is in my pants?

The question so many ask.

Revealing their fear.

 

*

 

As I shave my breasts

Making them smooth as lilies,

I adore myself.

 

*

 

Walking through the spring,

Flowers and buds are in bloom,

This I understand.

 

*

 

Swallowing the pills,

The moonlight of estrogen,

Supporting my truth.

 

*

 

I am the spring,

A revelation of flowers,

A transgender bloom.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 


All donations go towards buying groceries and medicine.


Hidden Heritages, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Hidden Heritages

A poem celebrating being trans

inspired by attending a workshop with Starhawk

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

In the art of ritual

common, everyday things

take on new meaning.

The tree roots snaking

above the ground can

symbolize emergence

as well as determination

of will; the padlock pressed

into the grass by the grave

can mean secrets protected

forever; the strategically timed

coffee break which lets you

step into the sun, or the stone

you place in the center

of the meeting room table

while no one is looking

can both represent your ability

to live in truth—the solid, bed-rock

of truth, and both seamlessly blend

the magical with the logistical;

words and gestures translate intentions

and speak hidden heritages

between people not sharing a bloodline;

your every move can bind or loosen spirits;

every political action taken for good

and for the sake of children

will always be the highest form

of ritual; and this body—

this transformation of the mundane

feminine and the mundane masculine

into magical possibilities, declares

that spirit cloaked in flesh manifests

every need, every desire, every foundational

truth into being, into living wonder,

into the sacred space of what is

and what can be.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 




Donations go to help pay medical bills, rent, and food.