Memorial Day, 2019
Jennifer Angelina Petro
I had an uncle who fought in WW II, and he was never the same mentally. He was an extremely talented writer, and his PTSD from the war destroyed the rest of his life. It’s people like him I honor–and all the military people of color throughout history, and the indigenous people, who fought for rights they still don’t experience, who fought with little to no recognition, who fought and were betrayed by the very country they were fighting for.
I think especially today about my transsiblings who have lost their careers in the military–their years and decades of service–all because of trump and his religious extremist terrorist regime.
I have met homeless vets on the streets of Philly, in soup kitchens, when I’ve visited homeless shelters to sing–these people are in shock–not only because of the things they’ve witnessed, done, felt–but because of the way their country let them down once they returned.
These people and the trans service members are not just expendable pieces–nor were the people of color who served in the military….We all know that—but let’s not kid ourselves that this country really cares about the actual human beings fighting these horrific and most often unjust wars—If they cared they wouldn’t be so actively fighting to take away the rights of people like me—slapping the sacrifices soldiers have made to protect my rights and the civil rights of all people–in the face….only to watch their country erode into a cesspool of hate, bigotry, and a way of thinking that is so backwards mentally, spiritually, socially, that it’s difficult to see a way out.
You know I’m a pacifist at heart/soul, but a revolution might be what’s needed to change the shit going on in this country–and for those future veterans—the marginalized ones who will fight, who do fight everyday—-it will just be a continuation of daily battles.
And yeah, it pisses people off to hear comparisons of transpeople with military members–as far as us being “heroes.” –but the truth is, transpeople like me fight a war to exist every day–and that doesn’t make us heroic, it makes us victims in a battle we did not choose. We shouldn’t need to be called heroes just because we’re trying to live our lives in safety. I don’t believe the ghosts of the soldiers who fought for American freedom would be happy to know genocide is happening right on our very soil—-again–it’s never actually stopped.
Going out anywhere–to church, the store, to the post office, to any public restroom–is putting myself at risk. I am constantly hyper vigilant of my surroundings and those around me—why? Because my life IS a war zone. If people weren’t so scared of people like my why would trump and his weaklings want us gone so badly? So sometimes the comparisons are worthy to make between veterans and queer people like me.
And it’s not only queer people–people of color are at war in this country–young black men just picking up trash are veterans of living a life of war everyday—putting themselves in danger just because they wear a hoodie, Islamic people just trying to worship, to make a living–they are at war in this country–Jewish people, Latinx people….people in jail whose lives are completely destroyed for selling/using weed….Marginalized people–each and everyone of us is a veteran of wars we fight everyday because we are the hunted.
I am not saying I want to draw attention away from military vets–Far from it. I want us all to rise up and actually fight for what they fought for—a country free to all and for the rights of all. And as long as white-supremacist colonization and brutality is still going on there will never be peace. We will always be fighting.
To those who fight overseas, and to those who fight getting out of bed, to those that fight leaving their homes because of fears for their own safety, for those that fight who have no home—I honor all of you this day, and I will, as always, keep praying for peace, and keep fighting in the ways I am able.
Dissociation and Presence
The Transgender Day of Remembrance, 2018
Jennifer Angelina Petro
I realized after the Transgender Day of Remembrance Service that I helped organize and lead at Love in Action UCC, I began to dissociate. It was a beautiful and yet heavy morning. Try as I might my brain just couldn’t stay present with the pain. PTSD triggered, I tried to feel the tragedy of so many innocent lives lost, yet my soul said: “It’s too much. Feel what you can now, then feel more later, and remember Dear One, you do not need to sit with the pain alone.” I did my best to not shame myself for needing a space between the pain and consciousness. I went home, collapsed into bed, and within minutes I was weeping, and then, like a baby being held in her mother’s arms, I slipped away into a holy nothingness. Later in the evening I had the honor of holding a baby in arms as she slowly drifted into sleep. I sang to her as softly as the wind, I matched the rhythm of her breathing, I swayed gently, like a tree holding the moon, and I knew at that moment—allowing myself to experience pain and grief in however I need to—even if that requires a sleep of nothingness, I will not judge myself as weak. I will acknowledge my soul’s wisdom for taking my wounded heart into her arms and singing to me as softly as the wind, for matching the rhythm of my breathing, and for swaying gently, holding me, as a tree holds the moon. ❤️
Remembering the Storm
And Putting the Box Cutter Down
By Jennifer Angelina Petro
Two years ago today, I stood at the threshold of the doorway to my basement apartment with a box cutter held to my wrist. I paced. I shook. I wept. I was filled with fear. It was cold. A light snow was falling. I felt utterly alone. It was the first fall I wasn’t teaching after twenty years. Other loses as a result of coming out as trans weighed heavily on my chest. The last school year I taught was devastating—aside from the most amazing and accepting students ever. The rest of it was traumatic. Now, I couldn’t find a job, and I missed teaching with all my heart and knew I would likely never teach elementary school again.
I stepped out into the snow. It drifted down gently on my shoulders. I was in my pajamas. No coat. No shoes. My socks were wet. My feet freezing. I pressed the blade against my wrist daring myself to end my life. Visions of collapsing right there in front of my door seeped into my mind—a mind broken—cracked—frantic. I stood there wondering who would find me. I feared for their hearts. I hoped the Divine would have mercy on my soul. Ending my life wasn’t a conscious choice. I was compelled by searing pain, depression, and the terror of a dark, uncertain future.
And then it happened. I closed the blade back into the box cutter. I went in and got my keys. I was drenched with snow, shivering. I put the box cutter down on my unmade bed. I looked around at the piles of dishes in the sink, the clothes strewn upon the floor, the plants unwatered, and, weeping even harder, reaching down for the box cutter again, only to drop it back on the bed. I forced my wet feet into my slippers, and went back outside.
The wind was wishing me onward. The snow slanting at an angle gesturing to my car. And I followed. Angry and frightened, disappointed in myself for ruining my life, for allowing myself to get this sick, wiping the snow from the windshield with my bare hands, unable to see what a courageous step I was taking. Unable to see the unseen forces of strength that were being obeyed by some part of my spirit that wasn’t sick—that deeply wanted to live—caught in a blizzard of mental illness. And I drove myself to the hospital.
When I got there, I gave my keys to a valet parking attendant—they stared at me. I must have looked wild—a scared animal—unshaven, sopping wet, snow-soaked. I walked into the emergency room and up to the counter.
“How can I help you Hun?” the nurse asked.
And I found myself, still weeping, snot falling, saying: “I’m going to kill myself.”
“Step around here,” she said, and they immediately brought me into a private room. Nurses gathered around me. They called a doctor. They gave me a gown and a warm blanket. They stationed someone outside my room to watch over me. The nurses were like angels—quiet, soothing, present, efficient.
I would spend the next ten days in the psych ward, missing Thanksgiving with my family. But I was alive. Somehow, I had survived a wave of mental illness.
The storm wouldn’t end there. I had more hospital stays and worse bouts of suicidality a month after leaving. For that moment though, I was safe from the sickness. I was surrounded by care.
The last thing I remember thinking as they injected tranquilizers into my IV, was: “Help me.”
Today, two years later—much more stable, and yet still struggling daily with passive suicidal thoughts and other forms of mental illness, those memories are falling like the snow, blanketing my heart. I watch the snow covering the trees with meticulous attention. I remember standing out in the snow holding the box cutter. I remember the depth of pain, fear, and depression—the echoing hopelessness. I remember feeling completely alone. I remember turning back, putting the box cutter down, picking up my keys, and walking, unsure, terrified at how sick I had become, out to my car.
All donations from this post go to Trans Lifeline.
I Think I Might be Straight?
My Ongoing Journey of Discovering My Sexual Orientation
Jennifer Angelina Petro
CW: Description of Dysphoria; mention of sexual abuse; open references to genitalia; mention of gender-affirmation surgery; a couple sexually explicit words; allusions to sexual acts
- Dysphoria—Getting Current
As of the writing of this post—November 5th, 2018, I am struggling with a nasty bout of dysphoria. Haven’t had one this bad in a while. In this moment—sitting on a big, round, fluffy, pink pillow on the floor of the living room, writing this, it’s six-eleven P.M. It’s dark, rainy, chilly. The autumn leaves are shining with their true brilliance. And I am sitting here alone, weeping quietly. I want a vulva so badly—my heart hurts. My guts are churning. My whole body feels wrong. I know—I have an interestingly-penis-shaped vulva. I know—it’s not the parts that make the person. I am a woman no matter what my genitals look like. I am a woman because I am—not because I take estrogen—not because of how I dress or act or speak. I am a woman. Enough said.
And yet—here I am, sitting on the floor—experiencing this strange sensation in my genitals—it’s a sort of longing to be something else—it’s visceral. The feeling extends up my sides, branching to my arms and shoulders, and my shoulder blades ache as if wanting to sprout wings. The rain-stained darkened window reflects my face—it looks as if I’m melting. My heart contracts and pulls my sense of self inwards a little further—a little more away from the world, and the tears withdraw inside, and my eyelids feel heavy, and my spirit wilts like a rain-soaked weeping willow. My genitals seem to remember another time—perhaps another lifetime even—I don’t know—but another time, when they were right with who my spirit is—when they radiated warmth, the darkness of a pond, the beauty of a flower, and the power of the moon.
And so, I sit, type, share what many think is way too much information. I know I wax poetic—fuck you—I’m a poet. Thing is, the very next moment after the blessed revelation that I’m a woman over three years ago—the very next moment—I wanted gender affirmation surgery. It didn’t faze me as to why I had such a desire. It simply needed to happen. Having no frame of reference in any way to such a surgery—the palpable desire to adjust this body more to what would ease this intense longing—that would help me feel more me—wasn’t even surprising. It’s as if it was always there—hidden inside, and that’s because it was. And it is all a holy mystery.
I think this wave of dysphoria has to do with where I am on my journey to awakening to my sexual orientation. The more I think I’m straight—that I really like guys—the lonelier I feel—the more impossible life feels. I want to be made love to with every fiber of my being by a man. I want to feel a cock inside me. It’s just the truth, and it will never happen. Nor will I ever have a child or nurse a baby. These are painful truths I live with every day. Some days hurt more than others. Today is one of the days it hurts like hell.
2. Questions About My Sexual Orientation
After I came out, the second most frequently asked question (after: “Have you had the SURGERY?”) from people was (and often still is): “Are you lesbian? I mean, you were married to a woman for twenty-three years. So, um, like…you’ve got to be a lesbian, right?”
When I first had the blissful christening of being transgender, I assumed I was, in fact, a lesbian, for exactly the reasons people mentioned. It made sense.
Then, about a year in, I was ordering some fries from Five Guys and the cashier was an incredibly handsome young man, and I found myself swooning in a way I’d never done before. I could barely speak. My knees were shaking. My hands fumbled as I gave him my crinkly cash and took the receipt hoping we would make some electric, albeit brief finger to finger contact. I knew if we did, I might faint.
Alas, it didn’t happen. I stepped aside to wait for my fries while compulsively munching on the free peanuts they give out. I admit I kept stealing looks at him. I hoped to god he couldn’t see my eyelashes batting like hungry butterflies.
I was stunned. It was the first time in my life I consciously had an attraction to a man. I left the restaurant and pondered in my heart what this encounter meant.
I’m a lesbian, right? Or am I bi?
I went home and conjured up some sexual-fantasies to see what felt better, so to speak, when imagining myself being sexually intimate with someone. And while I could feel twinges during reveries with the traditional images of men and women, the one that made me the horniest was thinking of making love with a man, and of doing various things to a man I suddenly always wanted to do. Once again, I was stunned.
And luckily, I wasn’t worried one way or the other.
Growing down (as opposed to “growing up”) I was forcibly “masculinized,” by my parents and other adults in my life. They saw something “effeminate,” in me and wanted it gone. After years of a steady diet of porn supplied by my parents it had seemingly “worked.” I thought for sure I was a straight guy even though I would have to confess to myself that when the porn I looked at/watched involved a man and a woman, I was often most fascinated by the guy and their “money shots.” I didn’t know why and I certainly didn’t encourage it by seeking out relationships with guys. I was steeped in an environment of homophobia and I had my own. I can see looking back that I also had an internalized misogyny, and, if I would have had a word for it in my unconscious awareness of being trans, I would have experienced an internalized transphobia as well. Not to mention dysphoria. Add to all that sexual abuse of all kinds, Catholic guilt over masturbating, as well as my own warped inner attitudes and desires around sex, and I wasn’t only confused, but ashamed—steeped in self-hatred.
Over time, after coming out, I started feeling the urge to date. Hadn’t dated in over twenty-five years. Time to get back in the game. Time’s a-ticking. I joined a couple dating sites. I proudly announced I’m trans and proceeded to write what amounted to an entire autobiography as my profile. It’s no wonder I never had any takers. No one had time to read such a tome.
I marked that I was lesbian. I marked to only have women see my profile. Nothing.
After a while, it seemed right that I was actually attracted to everyone in the gender galaxy (to hell with the spectrum idea—gender is an infinite multiverse). So, I switched my profile to “pan,” and happily proclaimed on FB that I was pan—bought the pan flag, and some pan-buttons, and well, yeah, being pan felt right. It seemed to encompass the whole kit and kaboodle.
And yet the people I found myself most attracted to were female-identified and/or presenting individuals. Maybe I was lesbian after all. Or maybe I’m pan with a little leaning towards women. Here again, I am happy to report that these confusions didn’t disturb my sense of self. It was an adventure. It was exciting. And yet, I believed it ultimately didn’t matter anyway because no one would ever want to date me let alone be sexual with me. That being said, it was all still fun to discover, if at least on my own, who and what made me horny. I longed to be sexual with someone the way I am now—fully cognizant of being a woman. I simply wanted to know the truth of who I am and share that truth with someone else.
I get it, labels mean little. I like them sometimes though. Like when I finally was diagnosed with being bi-polar. I found that strangely comforting. Same with being trans. Moving along a journey of discovering (uncovering?) my sexual orientation, I liked when I found names—labels. They were like sign-posts pointing to buried treasure. They don’t define me, they just help me understand myself.
Fast forwarding a bit, I’m not sure if it was the orchiectomy or my abusive past, or because I was resigning to never being sexual with anyone ever again—or because I simply was that way because I was—there needn’t be a reason—but I began to wonder if I was asexual. After much research, it seemed to fit. I no longer felt attracted to anyone sexually. And that was OK too.
That label didn’t last long however. I don’t know why. It just fell away, and a more, deep-seated, realization began to emerge.
I started having more frequent sexual fantasies involving male-identified and presenting people. I realized I wanted to identify as hetero but felt afraid to do so—or insecure—something. My internalized homophobia came in—as if I, a woman, could be gay—gay for guys, that is. I am a woman, so I can’t be gay for guys. I can be attracted to them, and that makes me straight. And yet, the deep fears were there.
Dysphoria began to creep back in more and more, I think because I felt insecure about having a penis—my penis shaped vagina. No guy would ever want me—unless they were fetishizers. Yet I couldn’t, and can’t, escape the truth. I am a woman with a penis. Enough said.
And so, today, Monday, November 5, 2018, I am settling in nicely with the dawning of being straight. I like guys, and that is fine with me. Maybe someday I’ll actually have the opportunity to be with one. For now, however, I rest (uneasily) in the work to be done today. And if this sense of being straight changes? So be it. As Allan Watts once said—we don’t dance together to end up at a particular spot on the dance floor. We dance to have fun. We dance to feel alive.
III. Current Final Thoughts
This journey of discovering my sexual orientation isn’t unique to me. And not just because I’m a transgender woman. It’s because I’m human. There are many factors contributing to this extended journey and the fact is that there is likely no finish line to this exploring. Many people, if they’re deeply honest and self-aware sometimes question their sexual orientation. Sometimes not and they can be just as honest and self-aware. It’s all good.
Main thing I suggest to anyone out there experiencing questions about their sexual orientation—have fun. It’s OK to be who you are. It’s OK not to know. It’s OK to know and not tell the world. It’s OK to treasure up your findings to yourself and/or to a few, select people. It’s OK to shout it off the rooftops. And it’s OK to wake up tomorrow and think you’re actually something else. Have fun, be safe, have a trusted support network and even a therapist if you feel overwhelmed. You’re not alone. And again, there may not be a finish line. Main thing is: Have fun, and enjoy adventuring. Go slow, go far, and rejoice—you are giving yourself the gift, and honor, of exploring who you are.
A Call to Action For Allies of Transgender People
Jennifer Angelina Petro
“We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
― Elie Wiesel
Violence against transgender people and other queer people, especially queer people of color, is up ever since the terroristic Trump regime took office, and will only increase if the latest political assault on trans people goes through.
Trump wants to legally define gender based solely on body parts. This would effectively erase transgender, intersex, and other nonbinary people out of existence.
Of course, we’ll still be here—we’ve always been here, and always will be.
What will happen though is that any and all legal protections will be removed (not that we’ve had many of them to begin with). It will be “legal,” to deny transgender people healthcare, insurance, employment rights, and housing rights.
It will also give the haters even more license to commit hate crimes on people like me. Why shouldn’t they if we don’t exist—if we don’t matter in the eyes of the federal government? We shouldn’t they if we’re not going to be counted on the U.S. Census?
This amounts to genocide. Yes, it’s a strong word. Genocide means: “the deliberate killing of a large group of people.” Its synonyms include: “mass murder, mass homicide.”
Will there actually be a mass killing of transgender people? I hope not, of course. However, if one factors in an increase in the undocumented and documented murders of trans people, the documented and undocumented lives of young trans people lost to suicide as a result of constant—federally condoned violence and bullying, if one factors in the transgender people who will die as a result of lack of health care, or who will die on the streets due to homelessness, then the numbers of dead transgender people could become staggering (and yes—one is too many). These atrocities will all worsen if the federal government decrees that we don’t exist.
What frightens me the most are the terrible consequences that young trans people will suffer. The kids. The ones growing up into a future where they will have no federal government protections. Their futures are in jeopardy even more than they are now.
It’s time allies.
It’s time to rise up and stand with transgender people and all other LGBTQIA people.
You might be thinking: There are a lot of other kinds of people to stand up for—lots of causes to fight for, and you’re right. Consider this though:
The next step after erasing trans people will be to erase people based on their sexual orientation, religion, race, political party, health issue, people on birth control, people who’ve had abortions, people who are differently abled, people who are different than the white and the rich, the educated and male. What will it do to the #MeToo Movement? A movement already scoffed at by many. Should sexual assault victims have human rights? Should children?
There was a time I would have thought these things would never, ever be possible.
They are though. They are. It has already begun.
Stand with me. Stand with us. This affects everyone.
What does it look like to stand with trans people?
-Write to your senators and local politicians.
-March with us.
-Educate your family and friends about us—risk being hated for what you believe.
-Add pro-trans FB profile frames on your profile pictures and/or your FB banners.
-Spread the word across all social media that trans rights are human rights.
-Stand for us in your places of worship and schools.
-Buy “Trans Rights Are Human Rights” shirts and wear them proudly.
-Hug us openly.
-Adopt trans kids.
-Open your homes to homeless trans people.
-Go to the homeless and bring them food, water, blankets, medicine.
-Go to public restrooms with us.
-Invite LGBTQIA people to holiday dinners.
-And much more.
It is one thing to tell a trans person you love and accept and stand with them. It is another thing to take public action steps to demonstrate that love and acceptance.
And yeah, I get it. Some of you are afraid of what others will say. Some of you might be afraid for your safety if you openly fight for trans rights. You might fear for your jobs, for your membership in places of worship, for what your friends and relatives might say. I get it. On a daily basis, believe me, I get it.
Anyone who voted for Trump is complicit in the violence and deaths that will increase as a result of transgender people being erased in the eyes of the federal government. So are those who remain silent in the face of such abuse of power. If you are too afraid to stand up to any of your friends and relatives who support Trump for my sake and/or the sake of an entire group of people, then where does that put you in relationship with those friends and relatives? Where does it put you in relationship with me? With yourself? With your faith?
If the nation only hears the voices of the haters, then that’s all Trump and his regime will hear–that’s all the haters will hear–it’s all the people who choose to do nothing will hear–and so the hate and violence towards people like me goes on. If the nation only sees the public actions of the haters and not the public actions of people in support of trans-rights, then that’s all Trump and his regime will see–that’s all the haters will see. It’s all the people who choose to do nothing will see, and thus the hate and violence towards people like me goes on.
No. This isn’t about guilt–at least not about unhealthy guilt–like the shame that erases oneself. A certain kind of guilt can be healthy. If you feel guilty about something you did or didn’t do and knew you shouldn’t have done that thing or should have done that thing–then feeling guilty can be healthy. Shows you have a conscience. So, no. I am not trying to shame you–just help motivate you to rise up and show your support in public ways.
This is a plea.
This is a begging for something that should never have to be begged for.
Tired of the fear I feel on a daily basis. Will the place I’m going to be safe? Will I be assaulted? Will I be safe in a public restroom? Will I live to see my grandchildren or be cut down because of who I am, and not what I choose to be?
I’m tired. And I will keep fighting.
No. This isn’t about guilt if you can’t fight, or need a break from fighting.
It’s a charge. Fight if you can. Not just on social media, but with your lives.
Stand with transgender people, intersex people, nonbinary people—all LGBTQIA people.
Stand with us openly, actively.
Lives are at stake.
Freedom is at stake.
The fate of the future for countless young people is at stake.
We need you. I need you.
All donations from this post go to TransLifeLine.
On My Third Birthday of Coming Out as Transgender
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Last year I wrote about the fears I had of the upcoming winter. Fall and winter are often the worst times of year for me mentally. Two years ago, I went to the hospital twice in the span of two months for suicidality. Last year, with medicine, a wonderful therapist, Kellie Brunton of Ambler, PA, friends, a loving community at Love in Action UCC in Hatboro, PA, my poetry, and spiritual life, I had the best winter I have yet to have as far as mental stability is concerned. I am so grateful.
This fall is more foreboding. I know I need an adjustment in my meds. I feel myself sliding backwards (deeper?) into my mental illness. Fleeting thoughts of suicide and self-harm travel through my mind on a daily basis. And while they are passive thoughts—they are there more than they’ve been in a long time.
I begin this annual update on my trans-journey because it is, for me, part and parcel of my experience. By that I do not mean to suggest that I am mentally ill as a result of being trans. No. Being transgender IS NOT a mental illness, and while coming out three years ago blew up my life and that certainly didn’t help my mental illnesses, bring trans is a gift—-it is not, in any way, a mental illness.
My mental illnesses are part and parcel of my trans experience because they exist side-by-side, or, better put, are interwoven. So, to read this update on my Coming-Out-Birthday is to read also about my mental health, or lack thereof.
All that said, it’s been an exciting year with regards to trans-activism. I’m fortunate to have been featured on an episode on the Internationally famous, Liz Plank’s, Divided States of Women. The episode also featured my faith community, Love in Action UCC (LIA). I was also featured in a front-page article in the Philadelphia Inquirer that also celebrated the wonderful work being done by LIA. Most importantly, LIA and myself helped Hatboro, PA, pass a human rights ordinance to help protect people of the LGBTQIA community. It was an honor to be able to speak before the major (the incredibly badass, Nancy Guenst) and the City Council. I have also led LGBTQIA support groups at LIA, local libraries, marched in marches, written to political figures, given workshops on what it is to be trans, and will be performing in October for the important revue of This is My Brave—a national organization for helping end the stigma of mental illness. I was also honored to be the first ever representative of the LGBTQIA community at Glenside Elementary School’s Diversity Festival.
These many opportunities for activism in both trans-causes and helping to end the stigma of mental illness, have been rewarding and hopeful. And I need to be careful.
The more I do, the more I run the risk of careening into mania and then depression. It is still an evolving process of learning to navigate feeling joy and being manic. At least I am aware that this is a danger. That said, I am missing more of the signs of mental health relapse, which is why I know I need an adjustment in meds. In addition to transient thoughts of self-harm, mania has been slowly encroaching on my life and I am struggling with some of the symptoms of my mania—compulsive spending, eating, grandiose thoughts, plans, and ideas, racing thoughts, sleepless nights, the struggle to try and slow down both mentally and physically—the drive to plough through life is intense, as well as a myriad of other manifestations. All of this impacts my trans-experience by making dysphoria worse, by making the anxiety to leave my apartment even to just go shopping worse—alongside, paradoxically, the increased amount of publicity I am both seeking and being sought after for trans activism.
I don’t know where it’s all leading. I am still unemployed. I came close to getting a couple teaching jobs, but they both fell through. I continue to joyously volunteer at LIA helping direct an LGBTQIA Center at LIA, and that goes a long way towards helping keep my mental illness in check.
My finances, thanks to being bipolar and being unemployed, are worse than ever. I have to appear in debtors court in a couple weeks. I am close to filing for bankruptcy, and I have no savings of any kind.
I’ve had to move yet again, and although I am now living in the most adorable apartment, it was a huge stress to move for the third time in two years. I am hopeful this new space will be long-term. I love it here.
I continue to have the love and support of my ex, and the kids. We went on a family vacation for the first time in probably six years this summer. We went to the Redwoods and Sequoias, and was the funnest time, for me, our family has ever had together.
Poetry is still my beloved friend. Music too.
I continue to do healing where my sexual abuse traumas are concerned, and while that work is gut-wrenching, it is, of course, crucial, and ultimately transforming and liberating.
My father passed away last spring and that brought many challenges with family and the coming to terms with his not speaking with me the last nine months of his life. I sent him pictures of myself and after that, all communication ceased. I wasn’t permitted to go to his funeral because I’m trans, which was incredibly painful. My brother, however, arranged a private viewing for me, and for that I am deeply grateful. In addition, when he wrote the obituary, he referred to me as Jennifer. I wept when I saw that. He calls me Jennifer all the time now, and that means the world to me.
All-in-all, it’s been a challenging, rewarding, and busy year, and I am so glad I’m alive. Being transgender—being a woman—is an evolution of transformation, wonder, and gratitude. My transition has shifted a bit in my gender expression—I am comfortable now with some days not shaving, and I am presenting a little more non-binary, which is fine with me. My definition of what it means to be “feminine,” is broadening, and that too, is fine with me—and important as well. I have given up on dating–and by that I mean the complete lack thereof. I am gradually accepting that a long-term relationship is simply not in the cards for me. Lastly, with regards to my physical transitioning, I am grateful to have had an orchiectomy, and that has gone a long way in being comfortable my own body. Full gender affirmation surgery is probably not going to happen due to finances, and I am gradually surrendering to that.
Thank you for your continued support, encouragement, love, and care. I am so blessed with so many wonderful friends. I humbly request your prayers for where my mental health is concerned, and I ask you to continue writing to politicians, schools, places of worship advocating for the rights of LGBTQIA people, to coming with us to marches and protests, to keep sharing with your families, friends, and communities that LGBTQIA people are as deserving of human rights as anyone else.
Peace, my friends, I love you all.
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Let’s talk about boobs–particularly my boobs. If you’re already thinking: “This is TMI”, then you might want to stop reading now. Anywho….
So, I’m growing boobs, and I like my boobs. I got a head start when I thought I was a “guy,” and had, “man-boobs.” Now I have a fun pair of boobs that I admire very much.
Up until this week I have worn a bra everywhere I go–and I loved it. I mean, I loved coming home and taking it off (especially doing the take-it-off-while-keeping-your-shirt-on-trick), but, in general, I liked bras. Mostly because they gave my boobs a nudge upwards. As much as I like my boobs I am not thrilled that I’m 50 and my boobs are forming an increasingly intimate relationship with gravity.
Yesterday I did something that I am very proud of. Doing it today too. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but for me, it is a big step in body-positivity and self-acceptance:
I chose to not wear a bra, and I went outside, shopping, etc. I just had a Pride t-shirt on and some capris……It felt SO liberating! I loved it. As I walked there was a little sensation of jiggling, and that made me feel giddy. At one point I walked by a store window and saw clearly that my nipples were proudly protruding from under my shirt. Even my bumply areolas were somewhat visible. I smiled. I liked it.
And yes, I felt weird when people went by–several men and women looked at my chest as I walked around…and there were moments I felt really ashamed in general and felt compelled to cross my arms.
That said, as I mentioned, it was a freeing experience in body acceptance and, I daresay, a celebration. I’m very pleased with myself.
Yay, boobs! Free the boobs! Free the nipples! <3