Let Them Be

 

By Marilyn Moore

Transgender people.  Transgender youth.  Trans kids.  The targets of hate crimes, and punitive legislation, way beyond their numbers.  True in Nebraska, true in many other states, too.  An identity little understood by most, and evidently greatly feared by many.  

Probably like many of you, I went through most of my adult life knowing little about transgender people.  I still don't know much.  I know that every now and then a transgender teen would come out to school principals and counselors, and the school would work with the student and the student’s parents to make whatever plan seemed to work best for that student.  It was not a frequent occurrence…but school folks responded as they usually do, with compassion and a plan.  

In the past few years, the Nebraska School Activities Association adopted policies for participation of trans students in school athletic teams.  The numbers of trans athletes were small, but enough that consistent policies were needed.  The plan was thorough, and it seemed to be working.

I had read a little about transgender persons, education journal articles about trans kids in school, a few novels by authors whose own experiences raising transgender children informed their writing, and the occasional celebrity trans person story.  A few conversations with mental health providers, who mentioned an increasing frequency of transgender clients and the professional research that was growing. But overall, it was not a topic to which I gave much thought.

And then, this year happened.  For whatever reason, the Republican Party appears to have designated trans persons as “the other.”  This legislative session, bills were introduced in the Nebraska legislature that would restrict medical care for trans youth, that would legislate the participation of trans youth on school sports teams, and that would dictate the use of school bathrooms and locker rooms by trans youth.  Similar, indeed nearly identical, legislation (more than 650 anti-LGBTQ bills) was introduced in many other states in the country.  The hearings were loud, they were long, they were emotional.  Debate on the legislative floor was even more so.  In the end, in Nebraska, a bill was adopted that restricts the medical options available to trans youth and their parents, despite opposition from every medical and mental health association. 

Laws similar to the one adopted in Nebraska have been stayed or ruled as discriminatory by courts in other states, and that may be the fate of Nebraska’s bill, also.  But while the courts are considering constitutional issues, and some state senators are considering what they will try to accomplish through legislation next year, I’m thinking about the kids, and their families, who have been the target of unrelenting scorn, inaccurate statements, flat-out lies, and uninformed speculation.  The judgment of parents and health care professionals has been dismissed.  Lots of noise, lots of thunder, and lots of damage.

I’ve talked with two moms in the past two weeks, parents of trans youth.  One has a trans son, one a trans daughter.  One young person is in high school, one is a couple years beyond high school.  Both moms said something along the lines of, “This is my child.  I loved my child before I knew they were trans, and I love my child now.  This is one of the biggest unknowns ever, how do you navigate this, who can help, but what I know is that I love my child, and my job is to help them figure this out.  I’ll always love my child.”  

One mom is getting a fair amount of pushback from her extended family.  She’s remaining clear.  “I’m not sure what you expect me to do with your criticism.  Do you expect me to stop loving my child?  Because I won’t.  Would you stop loving your child?  Because it might be your child….”

Another conversation, this time with the uncle of a trans nephew, who is in his early teens.  The uncle commented that his nephew seems to be more comfortable with who he is in his own skin as he is making this transition, more so than before.  He also commented that he appreciates all the efforts that LPS has made to support trans kids.  Our conversation was in downtown Lincoln, where we could see the state capitol, and he glanced at it as he said he wished the same support were coming from our state leaders.  

Our governor has a stated goal of keeping Nebraska kids in Nebraska.  One of the moms I talked with told me that she and her husband are seriously considering splitting their family, with one parent moving with the trans kid to another state that does not restrict their medical options while the other parent remains in Lincoln for the stability of job and income…and what still feels like home to all of them. Another young adult, self-described as non-binary, moved to another state for graduate school, and will not return to Nebraska.  Their words, “Why does a state that I love so much not love me back?”  

It's not just the particular provisions of this particular statute, it’s the fact that there’s a statute at all.  It’s the fact that trans people’s very personal lives, that who they are at the core of their being, has been held up for public inspection, speculation, disbelief, and ridicule.  Mental health providers reported an uptick in trans youth reporting thought of suicide.  The title of the bill, “Let Them Grow,” is seen by these moms, and the uncle, and the trans kids themselves, as anything but letting them grow.  It’s stopping them from growing into the person that they know themselves to be.

Offsetting for a moment these really troubling glimpses into the realities of the lives of trans youth was the concert at Stranksy Park earlier this month.  Queer Choir LNK was the performing group, and there they were, in all their musical glory.  They filled the gazebo with their bodies, and they filled the neighborhood with their voices.  And a record crowd, more than 700 neighbors, showed up to listen, to join in the joy.  As their director said, “A whole community, of queers and allies.”  And a community is what it felt like.  The atmosphere was one of light and love and smiles and celebration.  It was diverse, it was inclusive, and all were welcome.  It was a good place to be….

Queer Choir LNK sang a varied program, with music from several genres.  Some spoke directly to their experiences of being queer.  The voices were passionate, the lyrics were compelling.  One line stays with me, “I’d go most anywhere to find where I belong.”  That’s a universal need, to belong….to a family, to a neighborhood, to a friend group, to a community, in a space that is safe, that is supportive, that affirms that you are who you are and that you are loved for who you are.  Trans kids aren’t the only ones who need this, we all need this.  But right now, trans kids, and their families, are most vulnerable, are most on the edge of not having this, and that endangers their futures and their very lives.  

To friend groups and school groups, to extended family members who don’t quite know who this emerging young person is, to leaders of organizations and communities, to policy makers at every level, I would hope we could agree to just….let them be.

Like us on Facebook @5 Women Mayhem.

Fireflies, summer sunrises, godspeed to my Zu

 

By Mary Kay Roth

I saw my first fireflies this week, as I was sitting outside on one of those languid June evenings while my wind chimes harmonized with the thrum of a neighbor’s sprinkler. Summer stretched before me with an invitation to slower times, and the hope that these warm, lazy days might ease my disquieting and seemingly infinite capacity to cry.

Google the death of a dog and you’ll get thousands of entries. Apologies, I didn’t really intend on writing another.  But sadness pretty much swallows me whole right now, so I will add one more story.

The story of Zuzu, keeper of sacred secrets, soulmate, constant companion.  A dog who has been making the world a better place since I returned from 12 Hills Dog Rescue, more than a decade ago, after the owners declared her un-adoptable, as she was a goofy looking mutt of mysterious lineage with shorter than average legs. I immediately snatched her up to prove them wrong. 

As a puppy she French-kissed an unsuspecting friend who knelt down to pet her and was shocked to discover Zu’s long, recording-breaking tongue. Her legs grew – kinda-sorta – plenty long enough to walk with her mistress. And over the years she demonstrated a predilection for pup cups, mind-boggling shedding and Mary socks.

A sweet, gentle girl with melancholy eyes and a mighty strong spirit, Zuzu kept me from going stir-crazy through the stark isolation of the pandemic.  When I lost my parents, tears spilled down onto the top of her head as she gently nestled in my lap. She was loyal and constant, alongside me all last year as we faced down my cancer together. 

No matter what happened, I knew everything would be OK, because I could hold onto Zu.  Far too soon, she died this week, but of course all dogs leave us far too soon. And I am left untethered. 

Strangely enough, my own mom and dad didn’t much like the notion of pets, bringing home our only dog, a hapless cocker spaniel named Prince George. I was nine and adored that hound, taught him everything from rolling over to leaping through hula hoops. But after only a few years with us he ran away, vanished ... and I remember asking everyone and anyone: Will Prince go to heaven? 

Our minister at the time paused at the question and noted that humans were far superior to other critters, so of course four-legged types would not likely enter the kingdom of God.  Seriously, I can trace the origin of my doubts and misgivings concerning organized religion – to that moment.  

Of course, decades later, I realize that minister was a very foolish man. Because, if there’s anyone with a golden ticket into heaven it’s certainly not humans (who are constantly trying to scorch the earth) but the critters who give us love without question, understanding and compassion.

It is indeed quite remarkable when you post the passing of a pet on social media, you’ll get more emojis than perhaps any other post. Something about their loss is a shared experience that runs tender deep.

Zu loved me beyond reason and I am flattened by some of the purest, most powerful heartache I have ever felt. Someone on Facebook described it as “a gravel burn to the soul.” A noted magazine writer called it “a tsunami of grief, sweeping us out to sea.”

I am drawn to Ted Kooser’s Death of a Dog: 

 

The next morning I felt that our house

had been lifted away from its foundation

during the night, and was now adrift,

though so heavy it drew a foot or more

of whatever was buoying it up, not water

but something cold and thin and clear,

silence riffling its surface as the house

began to turn on a strengthening current,

leaving, taking my wife and me with it,

and though it had never occurred

to me until that moment, for fifteen years

our dog had held down what we had

by pressing his belly to the floors,

his front paws, too, and with him gone

the house had begun to float out onto

emptiness, no solid ground in sight.

Our culture often treats the death of a pet like the death of a car. Wait a few weeks and go buy another.   

I’m with Kooser. After sharing an intimate place in my everyday life with this dog, there is “no solid ground in sight.” 

Zu’s absence is palpable, yet her footfall is everywhere.  I’m sucker punched each time I think she wants to come inside, and there is nobody at the backdoor. Nobody waiting for the remains of my peanut butter toast each morning.  Nobody there to greet me when I come home, her raccoon tail wagging with an insane fervor as if she hasn’t seen me for weeks.

At night, no pup curls up at the bottom of my bed, spinning around four times before she settles. At dawn, no sweet girl bounds up to notify me of the wakening day. And at the lake, she no longer trots beside me with the happiest of smiles upon her face, our six legs moving to a special rhythm all our own – as she glances up periodically, just to make sure I am there.

I took Zuzu for a final sunset walk at the lake on the evening before I said goodbye, and whispered all the things she already knew. We buried her with her socks and favorite blanket, planted rosemary and lavender atop the grave.  

I’ve always been confused about the notion of life after death, but I want to believe Zu is out there, perhaps ambling along the famous Rainbow Bridge to greet our Snowball – and all noble pups from the Good Dog Club. One friend believes her soul is scattering in the wind like fairy dust. Another says to watch for those fleeting glimpses of a dog, just on the edge of the horizon. And a very wise woman gently suggests my heart is not broken, but instead broken open with all the ways Zu has changed me – with lessons in living and loving, opening up places in my heart I never knew existed.

All these prospects give me some comfort, but bloody hell, I still hurt.

I know Zuzu loved and was loved, fiercely.  I know I am surely blessed, because I had a great dog with a kissable nose, who liked to be stroked just beneath her ears. I wish her godspeed on a journey that will take her beyond age, pain and the two Rottweilers that always terrified her.

I pull myself out of bed these early summer mornings, take an almost unbearable drive to the lake with no one in my passenger seat, make myself head down the familiar path and, somewhere along the way, pause for sunrise.

Gradually, slowly, the clouds start turning those crazy glorious shades of gold and orange.  And this much I know for sure, Zuzu is still there with me, somewhere, somehow.  

At first she waits beside me, good-naturedly, always a little confused why her human insists on gazing at the sky every morning. Then, eventually and inevitably, she grows impatient and tugs on the leash, ready to move on.