10 minutes on visibility

I was once asked on a Sunday morning to spend about 10 minutes talking about what it is like being transgender in front of a congregation of folks. 

I was a very visible member of my community. I was well known in multiple circles. Professionally and personally visible. It's hard to transition in the spotlight. It's hard to transition in the dark. It's hard to transition. 

When I began my transition, I didn't even know that's what it was. I sat and I wrote one day about how I had the right to be handsome. I began to explore simple things like binding... packing... dating... sliding my foot further into the masculinity I seemed to have been born into. Masculinity I used to curse. 

Why am I not like them? Why do I talk differently? Why do I walk differently? Why am I so othered by the boys and girls. Why did I feels so immersed in shame as my body began to change and breasts began to form? 

Now I look back and it all makes sense. Now I look back and I dream of a life wherein I had role models - big bold beautiful trans folx to show me everything I ever needed to know about myself. That I am and have always been a boy. 

As I explored artificial ways of making my body fit the image of what I somehow always knew it should be, I found something I had never had before. Confidence. I finally started to feel like I fit in this world.

It wasn't until I was in my forties that I realized my name was Jackson. I didn't realize I was a boy. I didn't realize I was taking a bold step into discovering myself. I simply knew my old name didn't fit and this was the name that describes who I have always been. 

And publicly, surrounded by many well meaning folx and a few not so well meaning folx, I transitioned into the man boy pup that stands before you today.

I transitioned in a community with few peers, no resources, and a whole lot of people accepting me exactly where I was, even though that place seemed to sometimes change from one day to the next.

So I stood in front of that congregation and I told them

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you the shame that comes with being misgendered.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you the fear involved with using public restrooms.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you the pain of living in a body that never seemed to fit.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how invalidating being dead named feels.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how much harm a lack of family support can cause.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how glorious it feels to walk - for the first time in your life - with your shoulders back because you are not trying to hide something that shouldn't be there.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you what it feels like to receive a baby boy book from your mother at Christmas when you're 45.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how scary and affirming it feels to have a entire doctor's office ask you to come share your bad experience as a trans person because they want to do better for the next trans person.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how it feels to see my partner's "I'll go with you" button and to know she - and the others in my circle - would use their cis privilege to stand between me and danger every single day.

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how it feels to be unquestioningly supported by your employer in the face of repeated misgendering and gender-related mistreatment. 

10 minutes is not enough time to tell you how my life would have been changed if only I had role models and resources and support as an adolescent. 

The greatest gift I can give to myself and my community is to continue to live with authenticity, vulnerability, and visibility. 

I'm proud to be Jackson. Proud to be a transgender man. Proud to be surrounded by amazing brave and beautiful folx who inspire me to be the best version of myself each and every day. 

10 minutes couldn't possibly be enough time.

Hormoniversary

One year ago today, I began hormone replacement therapy.

It took me over 40 years to figure out that I was a man. Four decades of messages about who I was and what I was and how I was supposed to be and it was hard to see anything else. Yet I could never figure out why everything about me felt so wrong. My shape and my curves and… my FORM. My form felt wrong. As I moved through the world as a child… an adolescent.. a teenager… a young adult…. A not quite so young adult.. a *gulp* grown up…. All of it. Felt so very wrong.

I remember being in school and the other kids making fun of me for how I walked/moved/existed… how I moved.. I walked like a boy. I carried myself like a boy. I dressed like a boy. Had I grown up in a world where visibility was revolution and trans rights were human rights and there were trans men and  trans women and trans people modeling to me what life could have been, things would have been so different. I can’t even imagine what my life would have been had I recognized Jackson at a young age. The turmoil skirted. The trauma avoided. And a giant leap over a muddy puddle of confusion and pain and shame.

The last few years has been a series of reliefs. The right to be handsome. Deep exhale. Jackson. Deep exhale. Gender affirming therapy. Deep exhale. Hormone replacement therapy. Deep exhale. Each step along this journey I have settled more and more into the man I was born to be. And each step along this journey I have become more and more free.

It started a couple of months ago. All of a sudden. Mr. Clark. Sir. He. Him. Gendered correctly. Consistently.

Something that a cisgender person can never fully realize is that when you are transgender, you notice EVERY SINGLE TIME you are gendered. You hear it, loudly in your ears… loudly and visibly in the room, like a flashing sign over your head. Right or wrong, you feel it every single time. Every time I am misgendered, I feel it. Every time I am gendered correctly, I feel it. And both evoke tears for very different reasons.

I never would have said that my features were feminine. There was never anything ‘girl’ about me except my woman’s hips and woman’s breasts and what was or was not between my legs.  But as I look back at a photo of my face a year ago, I can see so much femininity in my face. Lips. Eyes. Shape. My narrow neck and cheekbones and softness. I understand now as I look at this photo why I was misgendered again and again and again.

And now I am startled to see the effects of the masculinization in my face. Lips. Eyes. Shape. Thick neck and cheekbones and hardness. And I understand now as I look at this photo why I am gendered correctly again and again and again.

And I am so very grateful.

Many well-intentioned allies believe that now that I have had gender affirming surgery and am on hormone replacement therapy that I have transitioned. It is important for me to make it clear that transition is not defined by these things. I was a man named Jackson long before I understood that it was my name, long before I considered surgery, long before I began hormones. I transitioned medically and surgically because that was the path I followed - the right choices for me - and I was privileged enough to be able to make both things happen. A trans person is trans with or without surgery, with or without hormones, with or without legal name/gender marker change, with or without public acknowledge and acceptance of their transition. Trans is trans and trans is beautiful. 

Today, for me, I celebrate being authentically me. I celebrate visibility. I celebrate being a proud transgender man. I celebrate my freedom. And as I give myself my 53rd injection, I wonder how I will look in another year. Deep exhale. I will look like Jackson.

I am under attack.

Assault: Verb - Make a physical attack on.

Assualt: Noun - A physical attack

It FEELS like assault. It FEELS like I was assaulted. It FEELS like I was attacked physically. Except, I could have defended myself against a physical attack. I'm a big strong man. I'm brave (kind of). I'm self assured (kind of). And I can defend myself (kind of). But there is no amount of strength or courage that can defend one's heart against a violent attack of words. For me, anyway.

You see, there is no defense when someone finds your old wounds and rips them open. There is no defense for when you are already struggling and someone who is virtually a stranger begins kicking you again and again. There is no defense for when disturbed people make you a target to try to make themselves feel better through their grief.

My Dad died a month and a day ago. A month and a day ago at was at work and I got the call from my brother that I knew was coming any day. My Dad had died. And I processed as I process. With words. Just as I processed so many things. Those of you who enjoy my words followed along as I wrote about reaching out to my Dad after years of not speaking because I was ready to do my part to reconnect.

You cried with me when I shared about telling him that I had finally met Jackson.

You smiled and celebrated when I went and sat on a couch with him and we shared space for the first time in so very many years.

And you offered love and kindness and solace to me when he died.

I was leaving work yesterday and I did what you do. I checked facebook. And I had a notification. A comment. From my father's wife. On a photo I had shared on the day my Dad died. We are not friends. We are not close. We have no mutual connections. She, on the one month anniversary of my father’s death decided that she needed to hunt me down on facebook and scroll back through my page. How very sad that is, now that I look at it in the light of day.

"Tom did not have a funeral here because he had only been in Dallas for 4 years before he died and was sick the whole time unable to get out and socialize. It was my decision to not have an expensive funeral but to donate the money to the Michael j fox foundation instead. He wanted to go to church and did for about two years before he lost too much balance. The church congregation all sent flowers and cards. He had lots of friends in Maui, Texas and Orlando who all sent cards, flowers or donations. She states that he had no friends because he lived a bad life. He was an excellent father and she knows it was her that caused all her own problems, not Tom! She chooses to lie and tell half truths.

She says she was kicked out of his home. She was sent to live with her mother when she dropped out of high school and was doing drugs with her gutter snipe friends. That is when he told her she was dumb but he never said she was afraid or fat! She made that up. She had several scholarships offered for college if she had finished high school. Tom bought everything for her clothes, cars, got her regular counseling. Paid to have her friend visit from Nashville, couched her travel soccer team, took her to Hawaii at lease 4 times if not more. All she has ever done for him is bad mouth him and ask for money. When he had money he gave it to her but he did not have it in his old age and she got mad about that. He asked her once “what is wrong with you” after we just got home from dinner to find out she had shoved my daughter who was just in middle school, against the wall several times threatening her. All she has ever been is a big disappointment and since she cannot grieve his death she puts him down again in public.”

I didn’t read it very closely. I just skimmed it, got the gist of the content, and reached out to my people. The people who know me and love me and encouraged and me supported me through finding peace with my Dad and working so hard to heal the wounds from my adolescence. There was a vague… is she misgendering me on purpose? Just to hurt me? All I have even been was a disappointment? It broke me a little bit. Broke open the wounds that were mending. But I have good people… strong people… perfect people who guided me and supported me and held me. Delete. Block. Done. I never have to deal with this woman again. Repeat after me. I never have to deal with this woman again.

A little while later I get a notification that she shared the same comment on my blog. Delete. Attack. I was being attacked. The woman who married my father when I was 16 years old was attacking me. I had not interacted with her, nor had I said a single derogatory thing about her, and she had stalked me and was attacking me.

Then the next comment came: “Your one lying hebitch. Your dad never turned his back on you. You turned your back on him the day you dropped out of high school and was doing drugs with your gutter snip friends. Why can you not tell the world the real truth about how you are responsible for messing up your own life?”

Then it was hard to know what to feel or how to respond. All I could think was “it’s been almost 30 years. Other than necessity due to my dad we have not communicated or had to deal with one another in almost 30 years. How can you possibly hate me now just as much as you hated me when I was a 16 and 17 year old child in your care? How could one human being possibly carry hatred for a child for that long?”

So I deleted that one as well.

She has not commented again.

But this morning the notifications started and my Dad’s sister began.

“Jennifer/Jackson:
This is your Aunt Grace. I just read your blog about your Dad, my brother......What is your problem. AGAIN!
Maybe you need to stop living in a fantasy world (TV Shows and Movies) and face reality. What I see in your blog is guilt - not grief. I would much rather see my loved ones while they are alive, not dead at a funeral. I remember Linda (stepmother) getting out a message to all before your Dad died to come and see him while he was still alive. I really tried, but as an amputee and a person with ulcerative colitis I couldn't make it. Tom, Chris and even David did make it and your Dad had a second breathe. I called everyday until he died to tell him I love him. Did you? He understood. Even at his very worse, in a weakened voice he said he loved me. Funeral? No.....and so sorry he didn't die at the right time for you to grieve on your 2 days off.

You need a playlist to bring on the tears? Again, I can't help it but that still sounds like guilt that you are the one who did not treat your Dad with love and respect over the years.

From what I remember he stood by you. Most parents won't accept the fact that their child has told them they were gay. Your Dad was not an ignorant man. He knew it was something you had no control over. He told me he didn't love you any less. You will always be his child. Then years later when you announced you were changing you name to Jackson, again he told me he would always love you. I remember getting punished by my mother just for having a gay friend. 
Think about how hurt he was when you didn't talk to him for a number of years becasue he wouldn't send you to some expensive college when you were 30 plus years old. He offered to send you to college out of High School when you had soccer scholarships. Not when you were older. He was a hands on Dad and paid his child support until you kides reached the legal age and supposedly were Adults. At some point in your live you do grow up. 
He supported you during the most trying time in your life when you finally came out of the closet. To be complaining about a funeral is not the issue here nor your Dad. You are the issue. So sad.
It was your turn to give him moral support. I know I did. No guilt feelings here. I will miss him dearly. The last words I heard from him was "I love you Grace" and that was a couple of days before he died. That meant more to me than any funeral. Linda carried out his wishes right up to the end. 
By the way I would love to see the comment you had removed. So in other words people should only read the comments you choose?”

So now this person who I have also not seen or spoken to in over 30 years is attacking me. I would not know her if I saw her walking down the street. I would not recognize her voice. I could not pick her out of a line up. And she is attacking me.

Delete.

She is continuing to comment. On my post. On my friend’s comments. Attacking me. Assaulting me. Over and over.

The thing is, I am not afraid. I am not ashamed. I offer my vulnerabilities to the world because I think vulnerability is the most beautiful thing in the world. And when I see you being vulnerable, it gives me hope and courage and strength. And I want to do that for you as well. 

I am not afraid of their words and the half truths and the venom they clearly both hold in their hearts towards me. I am not afraid of these two women. There is nothing they can say that can hurt me. I also know you’ve got my back, my beloveds.

I sit here on my couch with my cats and I type and I wonder… how would this make Dad feel? Would he want his wife and his sister to attack his child? Would he want this to be what he left behind? Hatred? No. I’m sure he wouldn’t.

So that’s not what I’m going to offer. But I am not hiding their words. I do not need to defend myself against them and I am not hiding them.

But this is my house. And I get to decide. 

I continue to choose love. I continue to choose freedom. I continue to heal and grow and learn and laugh and cry and feel all of the things. And I will continue to do my best to not to be unkind in the process. And I am grateful I do not have to do it alone. 

My Dad died two days ago.

Is there a funeral?

They don’t have any friends – just the family there…

This was the answer when I asked if there would be funeral for my Dad.

My Dad died two days ago.

Fuck.

Let me say that again.

My Dad died two days ago.

Inhale. Exhale.

Today I watched that episode of Grey’s Anatomy where George’s dad died. And Christina told him that he was now in the dead dads club. And how no one wants to be in it and no one knows what it’s like to be in it unless they are in it. And I cried. I cried more for the death of George’s dad than I did for my own.

That’s not to say that I’m done. I can tell that I've only scratched the surface of the grieving that I have to do. But the funny thing about grief is that it decides when it comes and when it is finished. Of course, it would way more convenient if it would come during the two days I took off work to process the death of my father.

The death of my father.

Inhale. Exhale.

But grief doesn’t work that way. Particularly when you have a hard time getting into feelings.. like I do. Grief cares nothing for convenience. Grief cares nothing for what works best for your schedule. Grief comes when it comes and goes when it is finished and not a moment before.

So now my two days off is over and I’m still foggy and numb and feeling a little like a marionette whose strings are controlled by someone who isn’t really that good at controlling a marionette.  Jerky. Jumpy. Twitchy.

And emotions are right there. RIGHT THERE! Trapped in my throat and in my eyes and in the tension building in my shoulders. But they won’t come. I even made a playlist to help. Christ. You have no idea. If ever a playlist was written to bring on some tears, this is it. And it worked a bit. Last night there were a few. A couple of quick muffled sobs onto the shoulder of the loved one who had her arms wrapped tightly around me. But it comes and then it goes like that scene in Backdraft… remember how the smoke flows out under the door but *whoosh* and it is sucked back in? Just like that.

Many of you have been on this journey with me. You sat in strength and stillness when three years ago on Father’s Day I shared that I choose freedom. You cried with me when that man learned that his child’s name is Jackson and Jackson has a Dad. And you celebrated with me the day that my Dad met Jackson for the first time.

And I’ve said the words and typed the words and cried the words.

My Father. My Dad. My Daddy. The man who rescued me from the boogey man at night. The man who woke me in the night because he dreamed I drowned and simply had to know I was alright. The man who coached my soccer team and took me to dinner and was my biggest fan for a very short amount of time.

Also the man who called me dumb. And fat. And afraid.  And asked me what was wrong with me… a voice that would echo in my brain for years and years and years.. what is wrong with you? Also the man who sent me from his home before I was ready and changed the entire trajectory of my life.

The man who accepted the change of my name with more grace and beauty than any member of my family. The man who…. well, I don’t know if he knew I was his son.. I don’t know if he understood. I don’t know if he got it. I don’t know if he accepted.

You see, the phone calls to my dad got really hard right at the time of my transition. And they never got easier. He grew less and less coherent. My words seem to make less and less sense to him.

I wish he had had more of a chance to get to know his son Jackson. To see and hear and connect with the man I have become. It would feel good to me to know that he got it.. that he accepted me..

I asked yesterday if it is harder to lose a parent when you are close to them or when there is distance and disconnect and trauma and a painful history.

They are different, I think. Two different things. Both grief. Both heavy. Both heartache. But different.

When I did find some feelings today, it was about George’s dad from Grey’s Anatomy. And my Dad. And how the window is closed now. My opportunity to have a tender and supportive and nurturing Dad – one like on television – one like Mr O’Malley or Cliff Huxtable or that guy from Family Ties – that is passed. There were so many things that I needed and wanted my Dad to be. Reasonable and rational things to want. Things that a child is supposed to get from their Dad, and we never stop being our parents’ children even though they sometimes stop parenting us long before we are ready to stop relying on them.

And there is still so much pain and regret and heartache from what happened to me when I was an adolescent. But also there are beautiful memories of singing in the car with him and his large hands on my tiny ones as he pulled me around and around on a frozen pond. There are memories of laughter and touch and connection. Memories of how, for a short while, I was my Dad’s favorite human and he made me feel so very special. There is no special feeling like your Dad treating you special. It seems most everything after left me wanting and aching for more.

And while my empathy for people who scarred me deeply is in short supply, I feel empathy for my Dad. To build a life so small that there will be no funeral because there are so few people to have it for. It hurts my head and the loss hurts my heart and the old deep scars hurt my entire body and I don’t know how to shift it up and out and through.

And in the midst of that, I feel gratitude for a life I’ve built surrounded by friends and loved ones and partners and sisters and brothers and siblings of choice who fill me and love me and support me and meet me where I am. Always.

My Dad died two days ago.

I still am not sure what to do with that.

Live I guess.

I will live. As Jackson. As a man who would make any father proud. And when I find myself thinking of him, I will try to remember the superhero who could fix anything and build anything and frighten away any monster.

That was my Dad. That is the Dad I choose to hold. And in that… is the Dad I lost. 

The Trump Donuts

I voted.

I am 43 years old and for the first time in my life I voted in a presidential election. I am not sure whether I was not taught the importance of using my voice or if the lesson simply fell on deaf ears – more interested in chasing butterflies and romping joyfully around, blissfully ignorant of all the comings and goings of the world.

A little over a year ago, I was educated. I was taught about women’s suffrage. I was taught about how brave and bold and courageous women fought to give me my right to vote – for even though I do not identify as a woman, my driver’s license makes it so in the eyes of the US government.

Since that time, I have been surrounded by a host of wonderful queers who have educated me about things like racism and sexism and gentrification and islamophobia and ableism and misogyny and privilege. My eyes have been opened to a world of power and privilege and injustice. I have had my own experiences with homophobia and transphobia. There is so so much work to be done.

So I voted.

This is the third time I went to the polling place a block down the road from my office to vote. The third time I made sure I had my ID. The third time I went to exercise my right as a US citizen to participate in the electoral process. I was nervous. And I was proud.

I was disheartened to see that for every Clinton sign, there were at least five Trump signs surrounding it. Every Bennett sign was lost in sea of Comstock ones. There was a Trump/Comstock table set up, just at the edge of the “No campaigning past this point” sign. They had donuts and coffee and white Christian heterosexual upper middle class people. I stood straight, shoulders back, proud of who I am, and walked past them and their Trump donuts. 

I held the outer door for a young woman and she held the inner door for me.

I walked in.

I walked up to the table and offered my driver’s license.

She took my ID and looked at it.

“Full name?”

(Nervous excited butterflies! I never get to say my full name!)

Jackson Alexander Clark

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

I started to panic a little. Did I say it wrong? It’s only been my name for a year. Is that it? I’m sure it’s Alexander. I just talked to someone the other day about that. That’s what it says on my ID. That’s my name. What is happening? I said it again.

Jackson Alexander Clark

Now as I think about it, perhaps she was confused by my name and the “Sex” box on my ID with the letter “F” underneath it. Maybe she thought I was trying to cheat the system somehow. Maybe she could not reconcile in her mind my man’s name and her perception of my gender. Likely she has no idea how her pause made me squirm in discomfort and in fear. Or maybe she does and does not care. I will choose to believe the former.

“Address?”

PO Box 1…

“No!”

I jumped. It’s simply a force of habit. To give the PO Box. It is what is on my ID. But my cheeks flushed with embarrassment all the same.

12391…..

I spat out my physical address, feeling the nervousness and awkwardness wash over me.

She sat and just looked at me.

The same insecurity began to creep into my head. Did I say it wrong? Did I somehow mess this up? Am I not going to be able to vote because she does not believe I am who I am? A lifetime of struggling to become who I really am and now I could be turned away because I do not match who this stranger things I am?

Moments turned to eons as we looked at one another. I started to tremble. I want to tell you that I trembled with righteous indignation but that would be a lie. Fear. I was afraid. 

I repeated it.

12391….

She handed me back my ID. She handed me a card. Wordlessly, I walked away.

Six feet away I turned in my card, I received my ballot, and I went and sat down.

I am grateful that I educated myself on the constitutional amendments before I got there. My brain had slowed down and I was having trouble comprehending what I was reading. I studied the directions. It seemed somehow hard to remember what I was doing there. What I wanted to do. What names meant what to whom.

Then I remembered the Trump donuts.

OH THAT! I’m fighting against the Trump donuts. I’m doing one very small part of MY part to fight injustice in this world. I filled in the circles slowly and methodically.

I rose, inserted my ballot into the machine, watched my votes be counted, and left the building.

I voted.

Those who know me well know that now I am wondering what I could have done differently, what I could have done better, how could I have diffused the tension/aggression/confusion that blossomed as I handed my ID to a stranger who was charged with being sure that I was who I said I was.

But I know the answer. I did it already. By exercising my right to vote. By walking into my polling place in White Post Virginia as a trans identified person and silently booming “I belong here. I have a voice here. My vote counts, too.”

I voted.

And I’m going to get my own donuts.

Equality donuts for everyone.

Dear Parcheesi,

Dear Parcheesi,

You are a very good girl. Such a good girl. I don’t think I told you that enough times. I felt it each time I looked at you. I felt it each time I walked in the door and looked into those big blue eyes. You were always so happy when I got home. I mean, I always knew it wasn’t about me. Not really. Me coming home meant you went out to potty and then you got a… yes… you know what's coming… a C.O.O.K.I.E. That’s right. You go potty and you get a cookie. I swear, so many times you asked to go out just so you could come in and get a cookie. I think you went outside and just counted down – 10, 9, 8, 5, 7, 3, cookie, 1! and you ran back to the door and bounced and bounded your badonkadonk to the kitchen for your cookie.

Delightful. You were delightful.

Do you remember that day five years ago when you were lost and walking down the side of the road and Tina found you? I won the lottery that day and I didn’t even know it. You hung out at the clinic for a while. We really thought someone would come looking for you. Do you remember your life before you came into my life? I can’t seem to remember a time before you came into mine, Cheese.

Maybe we both won the lottery that day.

I put your picture on Facebook. Help me name this dog! The responses were enthusiastic, creative, and immediate. With each new suggestion, I would shout the name and see what happened. Finally, "Parcheesi!" You got so happy! You bounced and pounced and trounced and wagged your tail. Parcheesi. That's my girl. Cheeseball. Cheesecurl. Cheezit. Cheese.

Do you know that you started it all? A long line of rescued dogs named after games? You were the first. You were the young one. The healthy one. The one who was going to be here with me for the long haul.Yahtzee and Jenga and Sargent Pinochle. You watched them all come and watched them all go. You treated each one with the same indifference with which you treated every other animal in my life. I was the only one who mattered. Unless I had company. Then it was me who became invisible in the face of your shiny new toy - a PERSON... who might have FOOD... and SCRATCHES and LOVINGS. You are so my child, Cheese. So much tail wagging glee we both found in this life together.

Do you remember meeting best friend Beth? You loved her more than anyone. Do you remember? You were so HAPPY! So overstimulated! I started to worry that you would pass out from sheer excitement! (She's my favorite, too. I get it)

Do you remember snow? You loved the snow so much! You would roll around on your back and burrow your nose down deep and just stretch out and rest in the middle of it. You always liked the cold. This past week, as the weather grew cooler, you spent more and more time outside. Parcheesi, I wish you had gotten to experience another snow. But I remember for both of us. When the snow does come this year, I'll remember. 

Baths, Cheese. Do you remember baths? I know you hated them. I know you felt so so betrayed. But honeylove, you looked so lovely after. You were the most beautiful girl in all of the world. I do not know what I did to deserve a dog like you.

And Cheese! Do you remember that time that I took that picture of you? The best picture I've ever taken. You were so perfect. You delighted me. You delighted me every single day. For five years. Even now as my heart is broken, you delight me. 

Do you remember car trips? That day 18 months ago when I drove you to meet Dr. White for the first time? You were so skeptical in the car. So doubtful of me and my driving. I mean, where were we going? This wasn't the clinic. This wasn't Blandy. This definitely isn't somewhere we've been before.

I know you felt my anxiety.

I'm sorry Cheese. I should have done better with that. I should have been braver for you. My worry made you worry. I regret that more than once my worry or my sadness or my temper made you worry. I wish I had been happy. More of the time. For you. 

Do you remember Dr. White? She was the best, right? We love Dr. White. 

Yes, it's cancer. Yes, radiation will be curative. Yes, we can fix this.

We took this that day before loading back up into the car. Remember? We've got this.

And then we sang the whole way home.

And I'm freeeeeeeee!  Free faaaaallin'! 

We went and visited Dr. White day after day after day after day. You were so happy.. so excited to load up and go. So happy to walk right back with them and then, on wobbly legs, you were happy to return to me. I was so proud of you. You were such a good girl. The best girl. 

You are my best girl, Cheese.

It got harder towards the end. The anesthesia began to wear on you and the burns started to surface. Physically you slowed a bit, but your enthusiasm never did. You were so brave. A lobby full of nervous dogs and owners and you brought smiles to everyone whose path you crossed.

And then we were done. You were cleared. You were free. 

Remember?

You were a survivor.

Cheese! Do you remember.....

uh.... .nevermind..

And then what a year we had! Cancer free! Whoo! Car rides and picking up chicks and making memes and deep thoughts and sunshine.

What a great last year it was. 

Then, your nose started running. And running. And running.

And off we went again. 

Do you remember the hard conversation we had on the way over? I told you that we were going to stay positive. We were already assuming it was bad news. We didn't know yet. It's all good, Cheese! You're a survivor! This is going to be fun! It's going to be fine. Everything is alright, my sweet loverdog. 

Parcheesi, honey, I'm sorry I wasn't more brave for you. I'm sorry I was anxious and nervous and afraid. I wish I had not brought my own anxiety on that trip. I wish I had handled it better. I know I handled it as best as I could. I simply had never been on that side of the door.

A few days later, we got the news that led us here. Now. To this day. 

Do you remember the night I came home and curled with you on the floor and held you close and cried? That night. That was the night I knew I was going to lose you and that it was going to happen soon. Cheese, my heart broke that night. Lots and lots of hearts broke that night.

Remember how we started living after that, Cheese? Crappy canned food and tons of peanut butter and lots of time on the floor together. Lots of holdings and pettings and lovings. Lots of all of it. If you had a bucket list, it would have been a bucket full of food. So we ate bacon and cheese and eggs and chicken and remember that steak, Cheese? And for the last couple of months, we lived. 

I did not know how I would know. I never know. What I did know for certain was that you were not going to suffer. You gave me too much love and joy and happiness for me make you linger here until you became a shattered shell of the joyful dog you were. 

The nose bleeds started to come everyday.

Cheese... I do not want this to be so. Not yet.

Honey... I'm not ready...

But it was time. I made the appointment. I sat with you and tried to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat. I gave you half of my sandwich instead. 

A few more days of food and love and treats and holding and curling up on the giant bed with you.

A few more days of questioning and uncertainty and indecision.

A few more days of extra canned food and scoops of peanut butter and spoonfuls of ice cream and slices of bacon.

And today, a trip to McDonalds. Hamburgers and french fries and happiness. The only thing I wanted from this trip was to bring happiness to you. I gave you that. The best gift I could give you.

After all you have given me. 

I thank you. 

And one last trip car trip for my happy, contented girl.

One last walk into the clinic.

Happiness and wagging tail. You love the clinic. Everyone gives you so many cookies.

One last walk into an exam room. 

One last, Cheese.

Rest now, my darling dear.

Let me send you off on your next romping journey with these words:

Parcheesi, you are such a good girl.You are a delightful ball of wonder. You are the epitome of joy. Your have brought me so much joy over the past five years that I will never be able to pay it forward. 

But I promise to try.

We all promise to try.

To be a little more like Cheese.

I want you to know that I am going to take a little break. I am not going to adopt another dog for a little while. I will again. I promise. But I need to let my heart heal. The loving of you changed me and the loss of you fractured me. I can feel it already. The fluffy blue eyed hole in my heart aches for you. 

I want you to know that everyone who ever met you loved you. Everyone who ever saw your picture loved you. You were special. You touched lives. With your smile and your eyes and your cheery disposition you spread happiness and joy. The world was brighter because of your wagging tail and  toothy smile and inexplicable blue eyes. 

It was a privilege to call you mine. Really, I think I was just a channel to share you with the greater world. I was so lucky that you picked me. 

Thank you, Cheese. For choosing me.

I want you to know that I have taken steps to take care of myself this weekend. I am safe and protected in the arms of people who love me. We all will mourn the loss of your bright soul together.

I want you to know that there will never be another Cheese. Not for me. 

I want you to know that I love you.

Thank you for loving me back.

Jackson               

I wish I had been more brave.

A year ago today I posted a blog and asked all of the people in my world to start calling me by a different name.

I look back now.. I read through… I shake my head.. I feel a little sad…

I want to go back to that person one year ago and say:

It’s okay.

You’re okay.

You’ve got this.

There are other people like you.

They are going to surround you so so soon.

Just hold on, Jackson.

You are not alone in this.

While there is no roadmap, there will be plenty of signs along the way.

Take a deep breath.

Everything is alright.

You are alright.

You do not have to be afraid.

I know you are anyway and that is okay, too.

I do not need to revisit the pronouncement and announcement and decision making process that let up to my becoming Jackson.

But I re-read my words and I thought of where I was and all of the fear and…

I wish I had been more brave.

I hid behind the name Jack in the belief that it would somehow be more acceptable to you, that you would find it easier to stomach, easier to adjust to, more understandable, not as much of a stretch.

It was, after all, my initials. Before and after the change.

I was asked to sign a birthday card for an employee at work that very first day and I signed it JAC. I froze. I was too afraid. I remember that day and my cheeks burn. I wish I had been more brave.

I am far too occasionally asked what pronouns I prefer, and I fumble and stumble and fall over the answer. Out of fear. Of how I will be perceived. Of what you will say. Of what you will think.

It is indeed a tightrope to walk when you are enamored with connection and terrified of rejection.

Love me. Accept me. Want me. But, please let me be me.

Whoever that is.

And I understand that my landscape is a rocky one. What was wanted yesterday has changed today and that may no longer hold true tomorrow.

I can only reiterate that there continues to be no roadmap and I sincerely do wish I had been more able to describe who I am and what I need and what feels right and what feels wrong. I wish I had been more brave.

I lied awake in bed last night and realized that I feel fractured, that I am walking in two worlds.

In one world, I am all Jackson and I am surrounded by people who see me as I am. People who hold space for me acknowledge me and do not feel unsteady around me. I feel confident and surefooted and grounded. I finally feel like who I was born to be. I finally feel free.

In another I am the person whose name used to be Jennifer. I feel whispered questions and misunderstandings and a divide that I do not know how to bridge. I do not know where to step and I always feel a little off kilter and out of sorts. I cannot find solid ground here. I did not do well in expressing who I am and what I need.

I wish I had been more brave.

I look around and cry out “someone needs to educate these people!”

And I remember that if there is no visible trail, maybe that means that I have to blaze it.

And I am afraid.

But you have to be afraid in order to be brave. Otherwise you wouldn’t need bravery.

So, here I am. A year later. Jackson. Unashamedly and unabashedly Jackson. There is no part of me that is not Jackson. It is as though I have always been this person.

It is that way because I have always been. I was born this way. I just didn’t know it yet. It took some time to meet this person that I really do love most of the time.

And I look back and I realize that it was not weakness or cowardice that led me to make the decisions that I made – the uncertainty and the insecurity and the trying to make MY transition easier on YOU. It was all just part of the journey.

My journey.

Jackson’s journey.

I’m glad I had not been more brave.

I did it perfectly. I did it exactly how Jackson would have done it.