Strangers and Friends

I have so much to say. I don’t quite know where to start. Since Trump’s inauguration, there have been so many thoughts in my head, but no time to share them. I have so many thoughts and emotions that I want to communicate, but today I hope to narrow my focus enough to go into some sort of depth. So please pardon what will surely be something of a word-vomit.

My heart grieves over Trump’s recent decision to close the border to international travelers from certain Muslim-majority nations, including refugees fleeing war-torn Syria. It has been noted that mysteriously absent from that list are the nations in which Trump has a personal stake. I will leave that topic for those whose expertise eclipses mine, and I will speak instead of matters of the heart, which I believe I understand as well as anyone.

I speak as a Christian. I am hesitant to use that word to describe myself, because I am well aware of the many connotations that it holds. Merriam-Webster defines the noun “Christian” as “one who professes belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ.” It is this denotative meaning that I claim when I refer to myself as a Christian.

I speak as a follower of Jesus Christ. I speak as someone who has encountered the person of Jesus and calls him Friend. My heart breaks for the Syrian nationals seeking refuge in America. I know my Jesus, and I know that His heart is for the refugees also.

“He ensures that orphans and widows receive justice. He shows love to the foreigners living among you and gives them food and clothing. So you, too, must show love to foreigners, for you yourselves were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.” Deuteronomy 10:19-20, NIV.

“‘For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.'” Matthew 25:35-36, NIV.

“Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters. Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” Hebrews 13:1-2, NIV.

This message–to welcome strangers, to love everyone who crosses our path–is a recurring theme throughout God’s instruction to His followers. To do it justice, I would have to copy and paste the entire Bible. But you get the picture.

My heart breaks for the travelers detained in airports, and the green card-holders facing deportation, and the families suddenly barred from reunion. So many innocent people have been affected by this sweeping declaration made by Trump. And so many Christians support it.

How is this possible? How can we stand by, how can some openly applaud this move that so blatantly discriminates on the basis of nationality and religion? This goes against what Jesus stood for. It goes against what He died for. He showed us sacrificial love, and we are trampling on His message.

So many American Christians have been seized by fear, and it is being used as an excuse to hate. We remember watching the footage of those planes crashing into the towers, and we remember saying never again. But folks, please hear me. We cannot blame millions of innocent humans for the actions of a few. We must not give in to this fear. We must not allow our hearts to be filled with irrational terror.

Don’t we remember what it’s like to be judged because of a label? How many of us have had to say “I’m a Christian, but I’m not like [insert stereotype]”? Muslims face the same struggle. Equating the majority of Muslims with radical Islamic terrorism is as unjust as equating the majority of Christians with the Westboro Baptist Church.

The truth is, many people’s only experience with Muslims is confined to the news reports about terrorism. Just as many people’s experience with Christians consists of hateful signs declaring what kind of people God hates. Anyone who has ever felt the jab of a stranger saying “You are in this class of people and therefore you believe this” will know what I’m talking about. It’s unfair. It hurts. Get to know me before you judge me. Hear my story. Hear my pain. Let me tell you what I believe, and why I believe it.

It goes both ways. Let go of the fear of the unknown. Meet people you’ve never talked to before. Put a face to the word Muslim. A smile, a story, a name. Make a friend. These are the people who are stranded in airports, or are legal residents of the United States who have been ordered to leave, or are no longer allowed to visit their families.

They are not strangers. They are humans.

 

Misgendered

It happens when I’m least expecting it. I’m at church, wearing eyeliner and dangly dolphin earrings, and a guy calls me “young man.” I’m out shopping with my mom, in the women’s department, holding a women’s shirt, and the clerk tries to direct me to the boy’s fitting room. I’m in the bathroom at work washing my hands and a lady walks in, sees me, looks at the sign on the door, looks back at me, and sidles into a stall looking confused.

It happens all the time, and it hurts. Every situation is a blow that delivers little micro-fractures to my self-image.

The problem is not that someone looked at me and thought “wow, that person is very masculine.” Because that is true, and I embrace it. I love my masculinity, and I know that it dominates my persona. I don’t mind that people notice that I’m a little different.

The problem is the stigma. The glance and then double-take, the lingering gaze combined with narrowed eyes that is in no way flattering. It’s the way that people shrink away from me, their whole body language conveying the message, “you don’t belong here.”

I hate that feeling. I hate knowing that my existence makes people uncomfortable. I hate that people think that they know which bathroom I belong in better than I do. Like, if I walk into a bathroom that’s full of women and don’t immediately back out, blushing profusely, then I probably I meant to walk into that bathroom. I’m pretty sure that’s where I’m supposed to be.

Okay, I think you’re reading too much into this. You’re being way sensitive here. People don’t mean to send those messages.

Damn straight I’m reading a lot into this. Damn straight I’m being sensitive. And it’s not because I have a giant chip on my shoulder. I’m not just looking for a fight with all you damn straight people.

It’s about survival. I’ve been burned too many times to not be on my guard. Because it doesn’t always end with funny looks. And it doesn’t end with stage-whispered conversations concerning my gender. Those are the first signs of trouble. I’ve also been yelled at. I’ve read about lesbians who were followed into public bathrooms by men who thought they were doing their civic duty protecting other women. And I’ve heard of much worse things happening than that.

It scares me. For me, it’s not just an embarrassing moment that will be forgotten an hour later. It makes me worry about my safety.

So why do I do it? Why do I present myself in a way that I know is ambiguous? One might even say that I invite hostility by the way that I dress. If it bothers me, why don’t I change the way I look?

Honestly, I spent years trying to fit in. I tried so damn hard. I wore pants that constricted my knees and shirts that soaked through with underarm sweat within half an hour. I forced myself to wear pink and searched endlessly for a fit that was broad enough at the shoulders but tight enough at the bust. I wore my hair long tried to master more styles than just a simple ponytail.

And I felt stupid and ugly the whole fucking time. I felt like an imposter. I felt self-conscious. And my attitude about my appearance affected my attitude toward myself.

Until one day I cut my hair, and for the first time I looked in the mirror and saw me. I saw someone I liked and respected and actually wanted to be.

That’s why I look the way that I do. Because now I can look at my reflection and not hate the person I see.

But I wish I didn’t have to put up with the looks and the whispers and the fear that someday it will escalate to much more than that.

I wish that instead of trying to figure out if I’m a man or a woman, people would just look at me and see that I’m a beautiful person. I have a masculine side and a feminine side, and they’re not at war with each other. One doesn’t have to dominate. They combine to make me the person that I am. Instead of being afraid, just look into my eyes and see that there is kindness.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re both scared. We’re both coming into this with a lot of emotions. I sense danger and I react faster than a feral cat. And I’m not sure what’s going on in your head–I usually don’t stick around long enough to find out.

But I want for that to change. I want there to be room for discussion, for increased understanding. Because when people really know each other, I think they can’t help but love each other. And perfect loves casts out fear.

Political Correctness

I wrote this journal entry about a year ago. My opinions on it have changed slightly since then, so this is an edited version. In the past year I have only become more sensitive to the pain of others. As I grew and matured, I came to be kinder, more understanding. I have known many Christians who believe that political correctness is actually evil. They are threatened by an infringement on their freedom of speech. Here is my take on the matter.

Dear Church,

I understand why you hate political correctness. You hate it because it is so unnecessary. For a clean and unblemished people, tiptoeing around certain terms and insisting on euphemisms is petty and irrelevant. In heaven, there will be no need for PC. Everyone will be able to say what they want, and nobody will take offense.

But we forget that everyone is on a unique journey. We don’t understand the pain of an injury we have never experienced. We grow callous about other’s hurts because they differ from our own.

And I think a lot of times, we should on others in the most appalling way. You should be over that by now. You should let that go. You should toughen up a bit.

That’s so easy to do for someone else’s pain. Not so easy for my own. If I’m willing to guard my pain, I must become willing to guard everyone else’s in the same way. Even if I don’t understand it.

This is the reason for PC. It’s an agreement to steer clear of one another’s unseen bruises. Is that really so silly? Truly, it’s a common courtesy. It’s the least we can do.

But then there is the matter of rights. I have the right to say what I think. They can’t stop me from calling sin “sin,” and they can’t stop me from saying “Merry Christmas.” I get that, and it is absolutely true. Freedom of speech grants you the right to speak your mind.

But the heart of Christianity is laying down your rights. It’s putting aside what is easy and considering others as better than yourself. We are not obligated to be PC–it is our privilege. It’s my joy to select my words carefully, avoiding what I have a right to say and choosing what will benefit others.

It is easy to push the responsibility to the other party. You don’t have to get so offended. Don’t take it so seriously. Gee, can’t you take a joke? We say it, but we forget–we have free access to grace. We have an unlimited supply, and this is our chance to use it. If we truly have the maturity conferred to us by Christ, ten it’s up to us to be the first to extend mercy, as He would have done.