Tuesday, October 19, 2010

We Are Here


This evening I attended a community forum at The Q Center for the youth in our community.  It was about us, as a community, listening to them.  Listening to their stories and their ideas on how to make the world a better place for those coming up behind them.  The community packed the Q Center to capacity tonight.  It was an awesome sight. 

There were seven youth on the panel and each answered three questions.  I’m going to do my best to remember them.

(1) What has been hard for you?
(2) What has helped you the most?
(3) What would help you more? (Think outside of the obstacles.)

These aren’t word for word but they are the basic premise of what was asked in this forum.  The idea of the evening was to listen to these youth and use what they tell us as a jumping off point to brainstorm ideas of how to better help them. 

It was pretty clear that the majority of these youth struggled to find an ally or a mentor while growing up.  A few of them were seeing counselors who they didn’t feel comfortable completely opening up to so finding just one person who would stand on their side and create a safe space for them was very difficult. 

I heard a lot of them ask more teachers to sponsor GSA’s in the schools.  While, I believe, every public high school in Portland has a GSA the outlying areas do not.  The suburbs of Portland like Gresham, Troutdale, Beaverton, Hillsboro and many other communities surrounding us.  The youth need more teachers and school administrators in these areas to come forward as allies.  The problem that arises for many of these teachers and school administrators is that for them, becoming an ally could jeopardize their careers. 

In reality, it’s a much bigger issue then what we are looking at here.  The basic fight is against homophobia.  If we can’t, as a society, become more loving and accepting of everyone these issues will never go away.  While there have been so many strides made in our movement for equality already, we have so much more to do. 

To start, we as the adult Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer (GLBTQ) community need to step in somehow and start mentoring our youth.  They are the future of our community and of this world.  We also need more visibility outside of our community so that we can reach the youth who are struggling to find their allies. 

Mentoring was also talked about at the Butch Voices Conference here in Portland and it’s an excellent idea.  Something along the lines of Big Brothers and Sisters for queer youth.  If we could start something like that based out of the Q Center to mentor the youth in the SMYRC program and Outside In, imagine the changes that it could make for our youth and the future of our community.  Imagine the lives it may save.

The stories behind I Was That Kid and the It Gets Better Project show that these issues have been with us for generations.  It’s really a human issue.  When will we move past this?  When do we start respecting each other, stop casting judgment upon each other and start loving one another? 

Monday, October 18, 2010

5 Days


One afternoon in December of 1969 my biological mother gave birth to me. She was young, un-wed and it was 1969. Because of these facts and a few others, it had already been decided that I was to be given up for adoption. So when I was born, my mother was only able to hold me just long enough to count all of my fingers and toes. I was then swept away to the nursery to be cleaned up, poked and prodded then left swaddled in one of those plastic bassinets on wheels.


This would be my ‘home’ for my first 5 days in this world, only to be picked up or touched when I needed to be fed or changed.  I was the only baby in the nursery for those 5 days.  My Mother spent all of her time at the nursery window trying to keep me company.


I came out of the warmth, love and safety of my Mother’s womb only to spend the first 5 days of my life alone in a sterile, cold, and unloving nursery. No hugs, no cuddles, no connection.


After doing a bit of reading on this subject, I am willing to bet that those 5 days alone in that nursery did more emotional and psychological damage to my then tiny brain than any of the other abuses I experienced in my life.


I feel like I’ve spent the last 40 years doing everything I could to get people to love me, to touch me, to hold me, to stay with me. Yet, I struggle to actually form an attachment because there is this knowing in me that tells me they’re not going to stay. I’m not good enough.


Later in my life, my adoptive Mother told me that I never cried as a baby. The doctor told her once that she needed to let me cry so my tear ducts would form properly. She told him that I was a quiet baby that never cried. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for it.


I had become the perfect, pleasing child. The one who wanted to make everyone happy. The one who wanted to make everything ok. Because, if I did, they would stay. Right? They would love me. Right?

Forty years later things are becoming much more clear to me. This was the beginning of my journey through this life. The first 5 days.


(c) Wendi Kali July 29, 2010

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Her


There’s an image in my mind of a woman dressed in a soft, silk nighty with a flowing dark red robe that reaches only as far as her mid thighs.  She answers my knock and takes me by the hand.  Without a word she pulls me into her arms, closing the door behind me.  Her arms wrapped around me, mine around her waist, holding tightly.  Her hand cups the back of my head as she nuzzles into my neck and breathes me in.  We stand in this warm embrace for a few moments.  Gently, she pulls away, looks into my eyes then leans in to kiss my forehead.  Without words she knows what I am feeling.

Silently she leads me down the hallway to her bathroom where a warm bath awaits.  She helps me undress then reaches for a washcloth while I climb into the wonderfully warm water.  Slowly my body begins to relax and release the tension that has been building for the past 40 years on this planet.  All of the stress, the worry, the frustration, the anger, the pain, the unbearable fucking pain, begins to melt away. 

I am tired.  So tired.  She knows this.  In the silence she bathes me.  I close my eyes and hear only the sound of the bathwater.  The gentleness of her touch sends me deeper into the sense of relaxation.  Tightened and tense muscles soften and grow heavy. 

She finishes bathing me then leaves the room for a few minutes.  Sitting in the complete silence amongst the candles and the dimness of the room, I simply breathe.  A tear rolls down my cheek as even more frustration dissipates.  She left because she knows I cannot cry around others and I needed more then anything to release those tears.  The release exhausts me.

She returns to the room just as I’m preparing to step out of the tub.  The warm towel she wraps around me smells of lavender.  As I lean against the wall she gently dries me off, wraps the towel around me tightly then uses another to dry my hair.  I look into her deep blue eyes and pull her close to me.  Her smile is so beautiful.  Her skin, so incredibly soft.  She leans into me and kisses me gently. 

Laying the towel across the edge of the tub, she takes hold of my hand and leads me to her bedroom.  The downtown lights shine through the large windows creating a light glow in the room.  Exhausted, I fall onto the bed after dropping the towel onto the floor.  A moment later I feel her straddle my back.  With a bit of warm oil she begins to massage my back and shoulders. 

Feeling the remaining knots in my muscles begin to dissipate I begin to drift off to sleep.  She lies beside me, slips her arms around me and pulls my head to her chest.  Her warmth and love completely surround me as I drift off to sleep.  
 
© Wendi Kali 2010
 

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Binding, Strapping & Packing


Oh my!

I’ve been thinking about these things for a bit now.  What they are, how they make me feel and how they may possibly define me. 

Last month a buddy of mine gave me a binder that he was no longer using.  We had originally talked about it back when I was playing football and trying to figure out what to do with my breasts, which kept getting pinched under my shoulder pads every time the defensive lineman tried to get past me.  Fortunately, I ended up buying a set of shoulder pads built for women and the pinching problem went away, but I was still curious about and wanted the binder so I asked him for it. 

The first time I wore it I loved how much more comfortable it was than my sports bra.  It didn’t tug at my neck and shoulders and everything was…..um….secure.  When I put my shirt on over it I did this sort of Tarzan like pounding on my chest and noticed that I was standing up taller with my shoulders back.  I felt strong and empowered. 

The question was. why?  Why did smashing my breasts against my body make me feel strong and empowered? 

Then I started thinking about strapping and packing, which I’ve done before but haven’t lately.  (By the way, my favorite is this one.)  Wearing those things under my jeans made me feel strong and empowered, as well.  Even if I had no intention of using them later, wearing them out to places and knowing they were there felt empowering and…..sexy.  I felt different about myself but never really thought about why.

Honestly, it doesn’t really matter why they make me feel the way they do.  If I feel strong and empowered then it’s a good thing and that’s that.  Right?  Well, I’m a bit of a thinker so I wondered about it.  Was it that I was presenting as a man and felt as if I was even more so with those things?  Why did I have to pass and feel like a man in order to feel those things? 

Finally, it hit me.  It’s not that I feel like a man when I wear these things.  It’s more about the fact that I feel as though I can travel between genders.  Moving fluidly from one to the other and back again.  I don't know about you but to me that's tremendously empowering!  I fully embrace both my masculine and feminine energies.  It’s who I am and I not only accept it, I love it. 

Monday, October 11, 2010

Coming Out


Today is designated as National Coming Out Day.  According to Wikipedia, “National Coming Out Day was founded by Robert Eichberg, a founder of The Experience workshop, and National Gay Rights Advocates head Jean O'Leary during a 1988 meeting of LGBT activists as a day to celebrate coming out. The date of October 11 was chosen to mark the anniversary of the Second National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights, which had taken place four months earlier.” “In the United States, the Human Rights Campaign manages the event under the National Coming Out Project, offering resources to LGBT individuals, couples, parents and children, as well as straight friends and relatives, to promote awareness of LGBT families living honest and open lives.”

I hope that this day will not only promote awareness of LGBT people and families but also help those who are struggling and feel alone.  In the spirit of I Was That Kid I give you my coming out story.

My ‘coming out’ story is sort of a two-part story, in that I came out twice.  The first time was in 1997.  Many of you might remember when Ellen came out in the Puppy Episode on her show back in 1997.  Well, I watched her show almost religiously and after she came out, so did I.

During this time I was a single Mother raising my, then, 7 year-old son and had been single since I left and divorced his father when he was 2.  I was working full time, going to school part time and raising him on my own.  Without financial assistance or child support.  On top of all of that, I was trying to find me.

Growing up I knew a few gay men and lesbians but it honestly never occurred to me that I had more in common with them than I thought.  During that time in 1997 it finally started to click.  The show made me realize things about myself and all of those things resonated with me more than anything else had before. 

After the show was over and I put my son to bed I went to the mirror and looked myself in the eye for a few moments.  I knew I had to say it.  “I am a lesbian.”  It was difficult.  I choked on the words those first few times. 

So many thoughts flowed through my head.  How was this going to affect my life?  How would it affect my son and his life?  Would my family be accepting?  How do I meet others like me? 

Needless to say, I was scared.  But, everything started to make sense.  My life and the way I had felt about the idea of what my life was supposed to look like began to make sense.  I told two people the first time I came out.  My birthmother and my sister.  They were very accepting and loving.  In time though, those scared thoughts took over and eventually chased me back into the closet and slammed the door.  I wasn’t strong enough yet to handle it.  That idea of what my life was supposed to look like had a tight grip on my mind and thoughts.

I spent the next two years hiding in the closet.  Doing whatever I could to erase those ideas in my head that I was gay.  Finally in 1999 I came out the second time and this time it was for good.  I had met my first girlfriend online in one of those old AOL Lesbian chat rooms.  The first time we kissed I finally felt what everyone was so crazy about back in middle school and high school.  The fireworks appeared and I absolutely, positively knew I was gay.

During that year I found the San Diego Gay & Lesbian Center and found my community.  The rest is herstory. 

If you’re reading this and struggling, please know that you are not alone in this great big world.  Your community is here and ready to welcome you with open arms.  Here in Portland, Oregon there are many wonderful places to go including the Q Center and SMYRC.  Follow the links and connect with someone or email me and I will do whatever I can to help.  wendikali(at)gmail(dot)com

You are not alone.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

One Of My Heroes

Original photo: Marilyn Humphries
Graphic design: Torry Mendoza
The Butch Voices Los Angeles steering committee has awarded one of my heroes and pioneers of our movement their very first lifetime achievement award.  This is the talk she sent to the conference.  I wanted to share the amazing and powerful words with you.  We've come a long way, yet have so far to go.  Not only as a civil rights movement but as a country.  Keep fighting.


By Leslie Feinberg
Oct. 8, 2010

[NOTE: This talk can be quoted and reproduced under Creative Commons copyright requiring attribution, no derivatives, and no commercial use.]

I sincerely thank you for recognizing my activist work and writing for the first Butch Voices Lifetime Achievement award at this Southwest regional conference.

As merely one activist in a world of struggle, I dedicate this award to all those who are fighting for economic and social justice--from Phoenix, to Oakland, to the West Bank in historic Palestine--since liberation cannot be won without collective struggle, cemented with unity.

By recognizing a lifetime of work by a revolutionary communist, Butch Voices demonstrates the kind of courage this historical period of economic and social crisis demands.

But before I comment more on this, I want to say something about how illness has affected my own butch voice.

I am very ill right now, from a 30-year undiagnosed Lyme infections and other tick-borne co-infections, which I contracted in the U.S. I've been home in a darkened room for most of the last three years.

I'm also in the midst of a very debilitating treatment, which makes writing and reading even more difficult.

I have been able to write group messages: short public updates in cyberspace about how ill I am and why. These personal messages were to let you know that I'm too sick to travel or write or to follow e-mail. I have worked with many activists in the U.S., here and around the world, and I wanted to let them know that a lack of response from me was a sign of disability, not disrespect.

As I've written these messages about my individual health, however, I have tried since my 60th birthday last year to write a public statement, in my own voice, about the medical politics surrounding this epidemic, and how those who are oppressed are affected.

But these tick-borne illnesses make analytical reading and writing in the English language an actually painful work space in the brain for me--like writing with symptoms of a severe migraine. Language-driven work is difficult and largely unproductive for me right now.

I have moved much of my work and memory to a different area of the brain: making, developing and printing photographs--narrative images, grouped for greater context. My photos are my personal gift to you, up on flickr.

But weeks ago, in the midst of trying to get work done and preparing to go into this treatment, I awoke during the night and thought: If I don't write something in my own voice now, then when? I've already experienced dramatic loss of abilities, suddenly and gradually, from the illness and the treatments.

If I don't research and write up something in my own butch voice, then the voice of the bigots and bullies who claim to be experts on my body and my oppression will narrate my life.

This last planned written political statement is entitled, "Casualty of an undeclared war." I'll begin serializing it online to share with you all. I hope to begin posting it to MySpace and Facebook soon. Then it will go up on my website.

You can find all my web connections at: pageflakes.com/transgenderwarrior

If you introduced me as she or ze, either is correct.  I don’t claim the pronoun he.

I do claim the pronoun "she." My body is the site of oppression and resistance as female and as a butch lesbian.  There are no borders in my embattled body between the fight against women's oppression, sexual oppression and trans oppressions.

Taking me out of the category of female skews understanding of the spectra of gender expressions and weakens the struggle for women’s liberation, as well as trans liberation and lesbian/gay/poly sexual liberation.

My life has been shaped by the apparent contradiction between my birth sex and my gender expression. And I've been shaped by being a masculine lesbian female who found community, or perhaps more accurately: communities, plural, and together against a common enemy.

I don't want to romanticize anything about bar life in the pre-Stonewall bars: exploitation by organized crime, police raids, groups of bashers, oceans of alcohol and fights.

I remember one bar and party game in particular: rating butches from 1 to 10 on the aspect of their gender expression that was considered masculine. I do recall how those who played rated the same butch differently, showing difference in individual perceptions about gender expression. I also recall some butches protesting the rating they received, showing that individuals often perceive themselves differently than those around them do.

But mostly, I look back and think about how the game made gender expression a contest over who was the most masculine, like so-called beauty pageants award the most feminine.

Let no one say that anyone is "too masculine" or "not masculine enough" or criticize anyone else's gender expression. No one's gender expression is liberated yet.

In the 1960s many thought that being a masculine female was synonymous with being lesbian. That was the societal assumption. So it seemed that the masculine women we worked with in the factories, orchards and fields, who had male-bodied husbands, just hadn't come out yet.

That underlying assumption skewed understanding about gender variance and sexuality. Gender expression doesn’t determine who you are sexually attracted to or what feels sexually pleasurable for your body.

The assumption on which the game rested, however, was also that being a butch lesbian was a shared identity and had a quality of experience that could be quantitatively measured with the same ruler. The rating helped perpetuate the idea that some peoples' gender expression was "more" and others' were "less."

The real lesson of the game was missed: The 1 to 10 scale didn't rate "high" and "low," "more" or "less." instead, the exercise invited us to examine gender expressions that were considered the same gender expression, and find many degrees of variation.

The assumption of the game implied that gender expression is an essential characteristic that rises above class lines, national boundaries, above the struggle of oppressor and oppressed nations.

It ignored the experiences that were not shared, including racism, male chauvinism, unemployment, disability, and differences between urban and rural tolerance, and class divisions.

Racist segregation was the law of the land in the U.S. at that time, not just in the South. Buffalo, where I lived then, was apartheid segregated--still is. East Buffalo was community to those of African descent--and the banks and politicians used red-lining to create all-white neighborhoods west of Main Street.

Those who came out to the working-class lesbian and gay drag bars defied the racist segregation in public facilities. Although those who came out to the bars were predominantly white, there were also Black, Haudenosaunee, Latino/a workers of all sexes together in the same bars, united against a common enemy who could come through the door at any moment.

Many of butches of different nationalities also worked together all week long at factories, or stood in line at dawn--summer heat or winter cold--talking as we waited for day work outside the temporary labor offices.

The movement grew as we organized resistance to police raids and took up the cry: “Out of the bars and into the streets.” As that fightback intensified, it sparked consciousness and militancy, and forged pride and greater unity.

You honor and continue the coalition character of the struggle with the sensitivity and inclusion you bring to the language of your mission statement, a statement which could only have been hammered out with group labor, and the thought and discussion that work generates.

You describe BUTCH Voices as a social justice organization that is race and gender inclusive, prowomanist and feminist.

Your mission statement explains: "Our mission is to enhance and sustain the well-being of all women, female-bodied, and trans-identified individuals who are masculine of center. We achieve this by providing programs that build community, positive visibility and empower us to advocate for our whole selves inclusive of and beyond our gender identity and sexual orientation. We recognize our diversity as having a foundation rooted in butch heritage. We welcome the on-going development of movements intentionally and critically inclusive of our gender variant community."

I read with great care and appreciation that you welcome to this conference: “[A]ll who identify as Butch, boi, genderqueer, tomboy, stud, butcha, dragking, jock, dyke, two-spirit, FtM, trans-masculine, androgynous-with-a-butch-twist.”

“Connect with the power of our diverse, many-cultured communities of lesbians, Queer, feminist, womanist … whatever kind of butch you are.”

And you include femmes and other allies in your welcome.

I send you my deepest solidarity in your organizing efforts. This is a time to be bold and bodacious and to act, not to be immobilized by fear.

There are many things that have been won in decades of struggle, but as the experience of Nazi Germany demonstrated, those gains can be quickly wiped out. Bankers and industrialists in Germany funded the rise of fascism as a last ditch effort to save their capitalist system from a workers' revolution.

Today, neo-fascist organizing by the Tea Party forces is on the rise. Arizona and other states are re-imposing apartheid segregation. ICE agents carry out Gestapo-like raids on undocumented workers, demanding passbooks and tagging workers and families by skin color for interrogation and deportation.

This is racist scapegoating to divert attention from the capitalist economic crisis, in which the rich are getting richer. Immigrant workers don't steal jobs. There's no set limit of jobs in a society. Every working person creates the need for more goods and services.

The State Department, Pentagon and pro-war media are trying to create pro-war sentiment in the  LGBT communities, aimed at formerly colonized countries that assert their right to sovereignty, self-determination, and/or a break with the profit-driven capitalist world market.

Meanwhile, the CIA and other U.S. experts in the development of the science of torture have included rape and other forms of violence and attempts at humiliation and assassination of personhood, using prisoners' sexuality, gender expression and sex, as well as racism. Some of the guards at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo learned their interrogation and torture techniques as guards in prisons in the U.S., where sexual, gender and sex humiliation--like racism--is rampant.

Now, maybe the Pentagon generals and admirals will even drop their "don't ask, don't tell" witch hunt long enough to marshal fresh troops to send out to kill other working and oppressed people, or be killed. The Pentagon has no right to so brutally and violently discriminate against GI's. But that doesn't mean that the Pentagon is a kinder, gentler killing machine and therefore we should join.

"Big firms get rich, GI's die." That's the first protest message I ever raised my voice to chant.

The left wing of the early LGBT liberation movement in the U.S. during the late 1960s and early 1970s expressed solidarity with all who were struggling against capitalist and imperialist oppression and domination around the world, including in the U.S.

There's a big economic difference between the period I came out into, in the 1960s, and today.

Then, war for empire was still a boon to capitalist big business. The FBI carried out a covert domestic war of frame-ups and disinformation in an attempt to isolate and break up the struggles for national liberation, the organizing against the Pentagon war in Vietnam, and those uniting to demand women's and LGBT liberation.

But today, Wall Street and the banks are making a fortune in profit off workers' labor, while millions are hungry, johless and homeless. Where are the safety-net social programs? Where's the WPA jobs program? Where's the neighborhood clinics and food banks?

We're told there's no money for life-and-death social programs, but there's a blank check for endless wars for profit. Yet, today, imperialist war is no longer able to artificially pull the capitalists out of economic crisis, and those who are at ground zero for "shock and awe" invasions, and brutal occupations, are resisting by any means necessary.

The tinder is dry, and sparks of resistance will ignite a conflagration. As the union song demands an answer from each of us: Which side are you on?

Today, I dedicate this award and my solidarity to all who are protesting and organizing--through speech, signing, marching, rolling, tapping, and clicking the send button on an online petition:

--in the struggle for jobs, health care as a right, housing, education,

--to those battling white supremacist ideology--the nationalist ideology of the oppressor nation; to those demanding: stop imperialist wars for profit, and bring all the troops home, now!

--to those defending Muslim, Arab and South Asia immigrants being rounded up, tortured and deported; to those working to stop the racist war against undocumented immigrants and to boycott Arizona.

--to those protesting police occupations of oppressed communities, and the racist police brutality and killings--from 7-year-old Aiyana Jones in Detroit to Oscar Grant in an Oakland BART station.

--to those organizing in defense of anti-war and internationalist solidarity activists who are being harassed by the FBI and are now facing subpoenas to appear before grand juries.

--to those battling misogyny, trans-bashing, gender-phobia and other forms of sex, gender and sexual oppression in a patriarchal-dominated capitalist society, to all those on the front lines in defense of reproductive justice

--to the youth who are struggling for life and consciousness against right-wing  white supremacist, LGBT-bashing, anti-immigrant, woman-hating, and anti-disabled bullying in schools

--to all those struggling to remove obstacles to social and economic access that create disability

--to those who have the courage to refuse to kneel in surrender and pledge an oath of anti-communism to prove loyalty to the emperors of banking and industry and their imperial wars.

--and to the anti-capitalist Abolitionists, revolutionists who work to overturn this profit-driven, divide-and-conquer system of private ownership of all that collective labor has built over millennia, and to replace capitalism--in which abundance creates widespread poverty--with collective ownership of production and a planned economy in which people can contribute to society what they are able, and receive in return what they need and want.

Many battles lie between us and liberation. I am with you at every barricade, at every front line.

Friday, October 8, 2010

I Was That Kid


I awoke this morning with an incredibly heavy heart.  “Sad” couldn’t even begin to describe what I was feeling.  My heart ached.  I got up, let the dog out then went to the kitchen to start coffee and as I’m standing there lost in my task the tears just start pouring.  Uncontrollable sobs with heaving chest and all would be a better way to explain it.  The entire time this is happening I kept thinking to myself, “Where is this coming from?” Why did I feel so sad?  It seemed to be a complete mystery to me.

I updated my status message on Facebook telling everyone that I woke up with a heavy heart and a few people commented that they did, as well.  So I began to wonder if it was the emotions of my friends that I was feeling or was this all coming from me.  As a bit of a side note, when I make connections with people I tend to feel their emotions even if we’re nowhere near each other physically.   It’s hard to explain but in the past few months I’ve found a title for that part of me.  An empath. 

Going back to the point, I spent the majority of the day trying to figure out where all of this grief and heartache was coming from.  I took myself to the gym to try and shake it and was unsuccessful.  Spent some time with my son then had dinner with a friend then came back to the house and opened my laptop.  While reading through blog posts and Facebook stories it finally hit me. 

I am grieving for those kids who have taken their lives.  Not just the ones who have done it recently but every single child who has been bullied to death.  I have so much empathy for these kids because I can relate.  I know what that hopeless feeling feels like.  That lonely feeling where no one around you seems to understand you.  I’ve been there.  I was that kid. 

In elementary school, I didn’t like what the other girls liked.  I didn’t want to play house with the girls.  I wanted to play football and baseball and be tough with the boys.  The boys teased me just for being a girl.  The girls teased me for being too boyish.  Where exactly did I fit? 

By the time junior high school hit I started to try to be more like the girls.  Dressing like them (although NOT in dresses), doing things they liked to do, hanging out with them and trying really hard to have crushes on boys.  Honestly, I really couldn’t understand the attraction to them.  I tried kissing a boy in 7th grade and was waiting for that exciting moment that all the girls talked about but just felt…..nothing.  That feeling alone made me feel even more isolated than I had already felt.  Maybe there was something wrong with me. 

I couldn’t let anyone know my true feelings.  I saw how people who didn’t fit in were treated.  I wished everyday that I was bigger and stronger so that I could make it stop.  Instead, I learned to be the wallflower that no one noticed.  I disappeared. 

I was a cutter, a wall puncher and an eye scratcher (I scratched under my eye so much that I made myself bleed).  Thoughts of ending it all crossed my mind every single day.  I truly believed that no one would notice my disappearance.  

I don’t remember when it was but I finally realized that doing all of those things gave them the power.  ‘Them’ being the people who were mean to me and didn’t understand me.  My way of standing up to them was to stop hurting myself and stop thinking about suicide and survive it.  Live a life they would be envious of. 

Be the better person. 

You know what?  I did it.  I survived it and am a better and stronger person for it.  My life is my own and I am happy with who I’ve turned out to be.  A motorcycle riding butch lesbian, Mom, Daughter, Sister, Aunt, Godmother, friend, photographer and writer who doesn’t give a damn what you think of me.

I want every kid out there to know that they can do it, too.  Don’t let the bullies win.  When you’re done with school, chances are you’ll never see them again and your life will be your own to do with however you wish.  Do what ever you can to survive and stick around to show us all what you’ve been put on this Earth to do.

An amazing friend of mine has put together a website where you can share your story about being ‘that kid’.  Please visit it to read more stories and if you feel so inclined, share your own story.  With a picture from that time, as well, if you wish.  The website is www.iwasthatkid.com and you can submit your story to iwasthatkid@gmail.com.  If you’d like, it can stay anonymous.  Just let her know.  You can also visit the Facebook page and post your own story there.