Long Distance Relationships

Hello there. It's been six months since I've updated, but here I am.
It's been a busy six months.
I have just a few things I'm going to touch on and then possibly I'll do in-depth updates later this week.

• Six months on testosterone! I shaved (and regret it) the fuzz I had for a funeral.
• I have hair on my legs again! (kinda) After not having hair since 2003 on the majority of my legs, some thigh and knee-cap hair is exciting to me.
• Rachel and the kids met my dad's side of the family.

I'd like to touch on the fact that Rachel and the kids met my family in this post. That's momentous. They never got the chance to meet my dad (in fact, none of my friends did until his passing.) so meeting that side of my family was nerve-wracking to say the least.

I also hadn't seen or talked to most of my family since shortly after my dad's passing in 2008. Needless to say, none of them knew about me being transgender. Officially. I hadn't told them and because I was afraid of rejection and disappointing them, I just kept my distance. It was easier, in a sense, because I wasn't dealing with the drama that can come with telling (and I mean this in the best possible way)* a black family that I'm transgender.

That doesn't mean they didn't know, or have the inkling like everybody else did. My favorite aunt, Aunt Pat, and I have always had a special connection. I used to stay with her when I'd visit my friend who was stationed in Ft. Hood. She would always ask me "Is there anything you want to talk about, baby?" She calls everybody baby. I love it. This was back in 2004-2005. I was still in high school. I hadn't come out to my mom yet. That happened in April, 2005. Aunt Pat just knew and I was always afraid to put words to my feelings. I semi-wish I had done so, but we both agreed that God gave us the perfect timing.

Aunt Pat and my family from Kansas...and the rest of the United States...came to Oklahoma in July because my uncle Gene passed away suddenly. He was kept on life support until some of them made it to say goodbye. Aunt Pat was one of them. Not seeing her for nearly nine years was a fear I don't want to experience again. I had kept tabs. Watching from afar via Facebook vicariously though my siblings and cousins. I wasn't under my birth name on Facebook and only my siblings had me as their friend.

None of that mattered. She gave me the most wonderful hug when she saw me (and I was first in line), that literally melted all of my fear and awkwardness away. The following day, we had "the talk". I explained my journey from day one, why I was so distant, so on and so forth. She explained that she knew something was off, and hoped I would eventually reach out. She had searched and searched for me online, but never found me (which made me feel like I did a good job of covering my past). She also said that it wasn't until about eight months ago that she had worked closely with transgender individuals and openly admitted it would have been harder to accept me had I come out earlier. The honesty, the compassion, and the love that she gave me took away the pain that her words might have had years ago. She accepted me, accepts me, and struggled only once the whole time I saw her. It was amazing.

We went out, Rachel and I, to lunch with Aunt Pat, Uncle Chris, and Raaja (my cousin) before the funeral. My aunt Pat is boisterous, beautiful, warm, welcoming...she's Aunt Pat, guys. She hugged on Rachel before me, she accepted Rachel without hesitation. She even invited us all down to visit whenever we want. That's an offer I intend on accepting. The following day or so, we gathered up my mom and we went to the funeral.

I knew that there would be my extended family and that without Kim (my adorable sister), none of them knew who the hell I was anymore. Kim had added me to the family chat and some picked up on it, but it was not openly discussed. We arrived a few minutes late, thankfully, so we sat in the back with Kim and her mom and step-dad. I saw my youngest brother across the church for the first time in person since he was 11 or so. I was filled with so much pride. He's a good looking kid and he's come from some major shit to be more successful than me...and he's only 19. 

During the ceremony, family got up and shared memories of Uncle Gene aka Uncle Pookie (typically to the older cousins/nieces/nephews that were born before me). My amazing (and protective) sister shared memories that everybody was familiar with; some had even been there! She used male pronouns, she used my name...and nobody batted an eyelash. The stress was melting away and my sister was becoming my heroine. After the service, when everybody did the walking between the pews to give people hugs and catch up, the stress quickly rebuilt and my walls shot to epic heights.

Now, you can say what you will, but my kids have only ever known me as Colby. They don't know anything about my transition other than Riley knows I take a weekly shot that helps my brain and body function better. My fear was being misgendered as well as being called by my birth name. That's stuff they don't know about nor do they need to know unless they ask me directly. Aunt Pat came and gave us hugs. John, my younger brother, came and gave me a hug. It was nice. Then extended family came and they kinda knew I looked familiar but didn't know exactly who I was. Facial hair can do some wonders, but my mom did kinda give it away. Everybody knew my mom. Even people I didn't realize knew my mom.

An aunt came and clearly yelled my birth name and I cringed. I think I will always cringe. I had a beautiful name. My mom was cheeky and my initials were MEG, the first three letters of my first name. Smart lady. All the same, it makes my heart sink when I'm called that. We moved along into the dining area and struggled to all sit together (Kim, John, Matt our brother, our kinda-step-John's-half-brother Alex, and my crew plus my mom's friend Jane). We got it sorted, we ate, we laughed, I pointed out family members to Rachel and Ma. It was pretty good. Then came time for goodbyes.

The misgendering started. The birth name came out. It was stressful. I developed a crazy headache. But I kept on a brave face. I gave my family hugs, we exchanged numbers and became friends on Facebook. I connected with family members I didn't even know existed, but who said they loved me and were so glad to see me. I wonder if it was true or if it was just being polite. We got another invitation to visit my cousin Toni, whom I had a special bond with in middle school. She moved from Kansas to Norman to go to OU. She stayed with Uncle Gene and Aunt Debbie and helped with Josh and Zeke. Then she moved and I didn't see or talk to her unless we were at family reunions. I knew she had gotten married and moved to Baltimore and I always wanted to visit her. Since then, she's divorced, remarried, and moved to Washington, D.C. We will for sure be visiting Toni and her family.

As we were leaving, we had to find Aunt Pat and tell her bye. You don't leave a family function without telling Aunt Pat bye. Rachel, Jacob, and I found her and all gave her hugs. She asked Jacob a few times "Whose Aunt Pat am I?"  and at first, he wasn't getting it. Then it clicked and he said "Mine." and my heart was ten billion times bigger than when we first got there. We piled into the car and we left. My dignity was in tact thanks to my sister and my steel wall. My humility was in tact because of my aunt Pat and Rachel's unwavering support.

I may not talk to any of my family on a daily basis, save for the three I live with. I may not see them often. But they're with me, in my heart, in my mind, and in my veins. They're family. I'm proud that, even though they infuriate me at times, they're mine.

Having Aunt Pat as my aunt makes it pretty easy to be proud of my family. No matter how long we go without talking, or how far away they are, they're mine.

* I mean no disrespect to black Americans, African Americans, anybody of color when I make this statement. It has been exhibited to me in the workplace, in friendships, and on social media that there do exist some black people who are totally against the LGBTQIA communities. My family, and there are at least a few, was gracious enough to not let their personal opinions affect the celebration of life while we were together. But I know from experience that it can be very difficult to be a non-binary person with people of color in your life who are close to you. I'm not sure what breeds the hate/caution/whatever you want to call it because it happens in every single race. It just seems to be more obvious, I believe is a good way to put it, in the black community. That's part of what makes Aunt Pat's acceptance of me so important and special to me.

Week One: #Anticipation

Week one was met with little change, which was expected. I had slightly hoped there would be more visible signs of change, but I knew what I was getting into and what to expect realistically. The only thing that came and went was my voice getting a little deeper, so it could have been sinuses or allergies. I had some jaw pain that wasn't consistent, but I noticed it almost daily. I clench my jaw at night sometimes so maybe. It was just a week of antici........................pation. I'm not disappointed, just excited for the next go round. Here's my video; a summary of what I did and what I expect for next week.

#YUGE #expectations

There is so much to catch up on. Well, not really, but it's been exciting for me, and busy. My hope going forward is to really document what my life is like. Not for business, not for likes or shares, but self-preservation, I suppose. I want to be able to see where I've come from. Amnesia, dementia, Alzheimer's...they take things from us; memories and familarities that can't be given back definitely. I want to be able to look back if I ever forget again and know who I am, know where I've been, and hopefully remember where I want to go.
Where I've been though is an interesting journey. I've never really been shunned or lost that many friends. Not at the time, anyway. As an adult, yeah, it's happened. My high school reunion in 2015 was one where I was confronted by a couple of people who were, as I considered, friends in high school who simply "don't agree" with my "lifestyle." As if I decided this "style of living" is how I intended to live. I have always been transgender. I have always tried to be masculine. I have always been Colby. I have always been me. I just went by another name for over half my (current) life because I simply didn't have the knowledge to name what I was going through.
On December 14, 2016, I finally got in to see an endocrinologist and I got my prescription. That's right, I got my prescription for testosterone. It was an exhilarating and momentous day for me. However, thanks to insurance issues, my initial request was never processed. Instead of continually waiting, I found a pharmacy that doesn't take insurance period. Then, due to money, I had to wait until I could afford it. I was able to get a price quote over the phone, so I knew what I was walking into. I waited. For what felt like an lifetime. Finally. On a chilly Thursday morning, I picked up my very first prescription.
I was too excited to wait for it to be filmed, but I didn't complete the first injection so I did the last little bit and got that on video. I've included a link. I'm really going to push forward with my CoJaRi Productions and use that youtube channel for my further progression. The umbrella is important because even though it's me, it's something I want to be able to share with others who care, who want to be an ally, who are scared, who need guidance, who are curious. I welcome all forms of love and positivity. I also want to dream big. I want to reach people and show them that, even though it sucks right now and you don't feel you'll EVER get the shot or the surgery, it's possible.
I struggle. I'm afraid I won't get to have surgery for one reason or another. I want surgery. I NEED surgery. Having that is part of my identity and will be essential to me living authentically and justly. I will have it. I just have to keep pushing forward. Once upon a time, I didn't think I'd ever have my first shot. Today, I did.

Expectations for week one: I expect roid rage. It's a new chemical, it's increasing something I already have in my system, but it's new. I did decently well with the shot so I expect that with time, the process of pushing a needle in my body will become easier. Just gotta get there. I shaved so I can keep track of how my facial hair grows. I took pictures, too. I'm really trying to document this as best I can. Next week, a video of my shot and my update will be posted...I'll also have another set of expectations. Let's see where this roller coaster takes us!

Show Runner

I was up until about 4:15 AM waiting for the verdict of the presidential election (and watching Rocky Horror Picture Show) and went asleep as very different person. I woke up this morning at 6:30 AM and could barely believe my news feed on Facebook. Yes, I had indeed witnessed the beginning collapse of my sense of security. Let's break this down because my mental breakdown demands I figure it out. 1) I am transgender. 2) I am mixed heritages. 3) I use Obamacare/Affordable Care Act.

Being transgender is something I'm dealing with in therapy. I have never wanted to be open about it unless I've needed to or felt safe. Trump wants me, a human being with female reproductive parts but decent facial hair and masculine tendencies, to go to the bathroom with sisters, wives, daughters, nieces, aunts, grandmas...females who identify as females. He also has had an open rhetoric that invites people who are homophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, and whatever -phobic you can come up with that's focused on in society right now to openly attack/dehumanize/express themselves freely. That means: somebody sees me, they feel offended by my identity, they can tell me with their words or their fists. Whatever 'justice' they feel they can give me is the outcome. And because I'm transgender, the rights I already don't have won't be there to protect me. I'm sure it will somehow be my fault, that I asked for this, that I incited this kind of treatment. Am I being extreme? Possibly. But these are LEGITIMATE fears that I have. I am allowed to feel rejected and scared and demoralized. Not for long, but I'm allowed to have this meltdown because the securities I have are being threatened.
On top of being transgender, I'm mixed. My mom is white (but possibly of Mexican descent due to the fact that she's adopted, we will never know) and my father was black. I don't look black, I am mistaken for Hispanic more often than being white or even mixed, but I sure am. That makes me a target as well. Since I'm not from Mexico, it's safe to say I'm not a rapist or a drug dealer, according to Trump. But that keeps me open for discrimination. It allows for others who feel that I shouldn't be here, that I don't fit into the American Ideal, to tell me this. Again, do I feel that I'm being extreme, possibly. Legitimate fears. These are things that other people are thinking, feeling, experiencing. This is not a safe time right now and people are reeling and trying to make sense of their new safety/or lack thereof.
Obamacare has allowed for me to seek therapy. Not just for transgender issues, but because I need to make sure that I am mentally stable. Without it, I wouldn't have insurance because my job doesn't offer it in a traditional manner. I wouldn't be scheduled to get my first shot in about a month. I wouldn't be able to see a therapist who understands me, challenges me to deal with trauma, and who makes sure that I take care of myself and stay authentic to myself. Do you know how hard that can be when the world around you tells you that you're wrong? That you're just playing God and you're unworthy of love and happiness and safety? Yeah...trauma is fucking real people and I'm doing the very best I can to avoid additional trauma because of this election. Trump wants to repeal Obamacare and take away the healthcare that I do have. It's not much and it's not the most fabulous thing ever, but it is helping me live authentically and true to my happiness. That could be taken away from me. I won't be able to see my therapist, I won't get my shots, I won't be able to have surgery. Thus, I could become unstable at any moment and who the hell knows what then. I've got an amazing support around me, that definitely won't happen, but I am an exception. Not everybody is as blessed as I am.

This is not your everyday election. This isn't Bush and Obama, this isn't Obama and McCain. This shouldn't have been Clinton and Trump. There is nothing more scary than thinking that everything you live for, everything you've spent YEARS cultivating and protecting, could easily come crashing down because one man is surrounding himself with people who see me as a threat, a predator, an abomination, a "savage" (according to David Duke) and who don't believe I deserve basic rights because I'm lying and pretending I'm somebody else. If I were a threat or a predator, I wouldn't work with children and the love of my life wouldn't let me near her children. If I were...HALF of what Trump and some of his supporters believe I am, I wouldn't be here. I had somebody tell me today, while I was trying to let them know that Obama didn't TAKE anything away from people and that if people can say "Obama isn't MY president" then I can safely say "Trump isn't MY president" because I don't agree with most of his policies. Somebody told me...they straight up said "why don't you go hang yourself in your master's field?" This person knows me. We went to middle school and high school together. They knew me before, they are - were - a friend on facebook, but we hadn't actually spoken or seen each other in years. They felt that my fear of Trump and his anti-acceptance stance was worth me dying...at my own hands...in a field that doesn't exist, but apparently should because I've got black heritage. Will I always experience this? No. Because I haven't always experienced this. But realizing that there are SO MANY PEOPLE who believe that I am not to be treated as a regular human being because I'm not binary, white, educated is heartbreaking.
So yes, I will be cautious of who I meet and where and when and how I conduct myself around these new people. I will not allow Trump and the vile supporters who wish I'd disappear and/or die scare me away. I will become the change I want to see in the world. I will become a leader and a safe haven and I will make sure that the children I'm helping raise can think for themselves and can still be respectful and kind to others, regardless of their beliefs. Trump may have won the presidency, he may have more control over my life than I am willing to admit, but he will not deter me from being the man I am destined to be. He does not call the shots. I am my own show runner.

Bible Belt, Oklahoma

This is a post that focuses a lot on church, God and religion. Bear in mind that in my eyes, religion is what you make it. My God may not be your God and my God may not be the God you expect. We are all somehow connected. At the end of the day, I'm not 100% sure what I believe, but I have a relationship with somebody/something that I can talk to. Yes, I call it God and I say "Amen" when I'm done talking/praying. I judge not as I am not sinless.

A little bit of background:
I didn't grow up in church. I was given the choice of going to church, of choosing which church I wanted to go to, how long I wanted to be there. I actually wanted to be a pastor at a young age but never thought it was in the cards for me.
Fast forward eight years:
I gave up on established churches for many reasons. I couldn't handle the inability to accept other people's beliefs as truth (your truth may not be my truth and it doesn't have to be to be right), I couldn't understand the intolerance for people who asked hard questions, I couldn't agree with disowning a person because they didn't follow the Bible to a T. I stopped going to church for many, many years. We literally went to church for Christmas Mass and even then, not being Catholic, I couldn't be there. Mainly because I couldn't learn about Catholicism the way I wanted to.
In high school, I found a church home. A place that I felt welcome, felt wanted, and felt like I could be accepted by God. I was still struggling with what it meant to be a Christian and had no clue about the differences between Baptist, Protestant, so on and so forth. I knew very little and was somewhat excited about changing my views, expanding my horizons, and finding a way to reconcile my internal conflict. It took me a couple of months to be comfortable, but because I had so many friends there, it was easy to fall into place.
Fast forward two years and I've got a word for my biggest conflict: Transgender. The Bible didn't say anything about it, but it pretty much felt like I was gay and that was definitely something God didn't want. It wasn't natural and besides, how does population work if you aren't in a heterosexual relationship with God at its core? These are things I "learned" at church. I was transgender and I had actually wanted to be a pastor again. That passion was a roaring fire inside me. I wanted to work with kids like me and let them know that you don't have to be homeless or alone or scared or faithless because God would take care of you if you gave Him your faith and trust.
Then it all came crashing down on me. A very insensitive joke about Catholics and gays was made and I realized that church was not the place for me. I had been raised much differently than what religion/church was teaching me. Be a decent human being, do for others with no expectations, things like that. Making fun of people isn't good or decent, judging people isn't proper, but I was seeing this all over the place and I was more confused and scared than I was when I first walked through the door.
I left that church and I tried another church. I didn't latch on because I had just admitted I was transgender and was still incredibly uncomfortable in my skin. I had already decided on my name, that wasn't the issue. It was the "let's greet those around us" that I just couldn't do. I was crippled by anxiety and I left. That church is now an amazing, all-inclusive church where Norman's PFLAG meets (or used to). I had given up. I figured that God didn't love transgender people and that I was destined to be Godless and would just have to rely on being a decent human being and having fellowship by myself. I was not only letting go of my desire to learn about God, but I was struggling to let go of my dream of being a pastor because, well, I'm transgender and I have no place in the church.
Fast forward four years, 2009:
I'm giving church a chance. I can't say why, but I was. I found a leaflet in my Bible and I was actively taking notes. It was also at the church I thought would be my first home. I'm all about second chances and trying again, but that was a waste of time. I wrote off established churches and established religion because there was no room for acceptance unless you treated it all like a cult. I saw it all as a cult and I wasn't about to lose my new-found confidence in my identity and happiness just to hide and struggle all over again.
Fast forward to 2013:
I go to church a couple of times a year because of circumstances. Dating somebody whose father is a pastor kinda means that if you're at his house on Sunday, you go to church. I wasn't opposed to it, but it did make me somewhat uncomfortable. Her father is passionate. He lives the life of a God-loving man who has God at the core of his existence and he's happy, even when things are miserable. He gives me great advice and helps me navigate things I'm struggling with. I get to see that it's not all rainbows and unicorns. It's also not a cult. It's not something that you have to sacrifice who you are to be in a relationship with God and that's the core meaning. Fellowship is nice and it helps the church stay open, but what matters most is your relationship with God. Which is how I was raised. My mom was on to something.
Fast forward to 2016:
We are required by law to offer religious expression to the kids at work, which I had been taking them to church on Sundays and holidays and when I could. It was okay. I felt it was too commercialized, they wanted money for this and that, but didn't bother to get to know my kids from work or me and it was frustrating. In July of this year, I start going to church with the kids on Sunday morning. The first time I was quite reluctant. I'd been to big churches. There was nothing special about them; judge-y, close-minded, too big, too impersonal. But the message was good. It stuck with me. I went the following week and I was okay. By the middle of September, I was comfortable enough to fill out a communication card. I wrote "What is NAME OF CHURCH'S view on transgender people?" I dropped it in the donation box and passed it down.
On that Sunday morning, I had thought about pursuing being a pastor on my way to work and I prayed "God, if this is the path, give me a sign. Let me know the direction I need to take." During one specific song, I got major goosebumps. I had them the entire song and during the song, I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and I prayed again. "God, is this the sign? Is this really something you want me to do? What's my next step? I give this to you and I accept your guidance." Tuesday afternoon, I had a phone call from a number I didn't recognize so I didn't answer. But they left a message. I checked it when I got outside to my car and it was the church. It wasn't some volunteer, either. It was the head honcho. It was the head pastor of this church.
I couldn't believe it. He said to call him back and he would be happy to talk to me about their stance on transgender acceptance. At the end of the message he said, "CHURCH is a place that is open and welcome to everyone." I was impressed. I felt in his message a genuine warmth and acceptance of my question. There was no hesitation and he spoke like he was confident. I called him back and left a message. He called me back a few minutes later and we had a 10 minute conversation about what has been heavy on my heart.
Transgender people are loved by God. Not only are they loved, they're wanted. God uses us all however He needs us. Remember, my God isn't your God, but everything in the universe is tied together somehow...I firmly believe that. Call it intuition or drive or whatever else you want to call it. For the first time in 13 years, I feel like I can be accepted. I feel welcomed. I feel wanted. Not only that, but this is a place I want to be. I believe that there is a calling for us all and that we sometimes need a nudge to get there. I'm hopeful that this will be fruitful. I'm actually going to introduce myself to the pastor on Sunday. I'm also considering being a pastor again.

Being transgender doesn't mean that you can't be accepted at a church. I didn't realize that until today and it's important to me. I know that religion is important to other transgender folks, but they can't get on board because they don't feel loved or welcomed or wanted. They have rejection from their family, why would God want them? Why would God make them struggle like this if He loves them like the Bible says? God has a plan for us all. Your family may not be supportive of that plan because they don't know what it is, they don't understand it. But that voice you hear may be more than just your inner voice. Listen harder, give it a platform and maybe that voice will be the acceptance you absolutely deserve.