I don't think the holidays have always been hard for me. Growing up starry-eyed in Colorado, I would be delighted with the sight of snow atop multicolored lights, turning the white powder into a diffused rainbow. The nights grew longer, and it was no longer seen as anti-social to lock myself inside with a book or the new craft project I had begun to hyperfocus on. As I grew taller and wiser, I saw the winter holiday for what it really was: a Christian ritual mutated by western capitalism, where expectations are higher than ever but actual human functioning was much, much lower. My bank account bleeds through slit wrists as I struggle to come up with the perfect gift for friends I haven't spoken to in months, family members who abused me in ways I still have to dissect in therapy, and the love of my life, who always insists that she doesn't need any present.
This year, I drove with my wife and dogs over 1,600 miles to visit her family for the holidays. My folks claimed it last year, so it was only fair. Her family differs from mine in just about every way imaginable, for better or for worse. The digital sounds of clashing swords and supercharged roundhouse kicks echo throughout the ranch-style house in San Antonio, Texas, where the traditional Christmas attire consists of breathable fabrics, extra deodorant, and soaking in as much sun as possible. The change in climate was quite a shock for me, having trudged through an ice-caked sidewalk to load up our Subaru before the trip.
Texas views the holidays much differently than the rest of the country, or at least the parts of the United States I have called home at one time or another. Fireworks were commonplace, as were celebratory gunshots that frequently killed innocent bystanders, with the bullets careening through windows and rooftops into some poor bastard's skull. The lack of snow did not make for a lack of festivity, as inflatable corporate mascots dressed in Christmas garb stood proudly in the majority of yards.
Back to my wife's family, she came from a strong lineage of stubborn, eccentric characters who have all struggled to find their place in the world, due to queerness, radical political beliefs, neurodivergency, or some combination of the three. The children grew up nonreligious, never emphasizing the “Christ” in Christmas. Her folks were definitely ahead of their time, as I honestly couldn’t imagine what a 21st century childhood without weekly church service and deep-burning religious trauma would look like. Instead of conservative, Christian beliefs, her parents promoted free thinking, not bending to a system not built for them. They would bring their gaggle of kids to protests, with topics ranging from women's rights to gun violence in school. “Badass” puts it mildly.
Despite the family’s charms, I still had to break away and drive alone on the long Texas highways, glancing at the desert sunset when I wasn't blinded by multiple sets of LED headlights on one oversized pickup truck. Everything is bigger in Texas, including the average driver's negligence for other people on the road. I found myself fidgetly, my head spiraling and a sinking feeling in my stomach that was all too familiar. The same feeling would arise before every Sunday service, every visit to extended family, even the handful of sessions with a religious therapist, booked by my parents after I had trusted them with the knowledge that I was queer. The feeling wasn't dread, per se, but a storm cloud that loomed over the day. One wrong move, one word misspoken, and the heavenly rain would come pouring down, drenching everyone below in misery.
That is, honestly, just what family meant to me: a collection of people meeting in a quiet, tense room. Cautious glances exchanged between siblings, casual bigotry shared amongst the adults, and scornful judgement that never saw the light of day. That didn't mean that insulting dialogue wasn't exchanged about each other behind their backs. If I had a nickel for every time my parents bad-mouthed my brother when he left the room, well, I’ve already lost track of that total.
I believe it to be instinctual that every person feels, to some extent, that they are the black sheep of their collective, the odd one out in a perfect set. Whether it was my sloppily-chopped hair dyed a myriad of colors, tattoos etched into my arms, or a quiet resentment for everything the family stood for, I made my position as the outlier painfully obvious. There's something heavy about being able to ruin a dinner, a weekend trip, the whole family, just by speaking your mind and coming clean about who you truly are. The traits that made me special were laced with lethal shame.
That shame still permeates throughout my being to this day. I see the way my parents, grandparents, etc. look at me. My identity as a transgender individual is nothing more than the make-believe of a confused girl disillusioned with femininity, in need of correcting. I can have heart-to-heart conversations and deeply, truly believe progress is being made, only for my old name to be used in conversation repeatedly without a single soul daring to correct them. I kept quiet, too, so I guess I am also partly to blame. I've never made it a habit to correct anyone on names or pronouns, for fear of being seen as stuck-up, a poser, a heathen, anything. I'd rather be perceived incorrectly for the rest of my life than to grow a spine and stand up for myself, even if it kills me.
I grew up as a sickly kid. Migraines plagued my skull daily, leading to near-constant isolation, throbbing pain too great for a child, and upchucked meals in just about every classroom I ever set foot in. It wasn't uncommon for teachers and faculty to take a liking to me, with my impressive grades and boundless creativity seen as a blessing, a counterweight to my medical curse. One such teacher, my kindergarten or first grade instructor, kept her eye on me even after I transferred out of her school. She worked at a Christian K-12 and, despite me only completing two years of the twelve year plan, she kept up-to-date on my life through my mother's social media. The first year at my new school, a secular public school, she visited me and prayed with me in the front office. I remember crying, not from some divine light shining on me, but from the fact that someone actually cared about me.
I received a postcard from this teacher, nearly two decades later and two time zones away. Her note is saturated in Christian love, even including a Bible verse at the end: Jeremiah 29:11 - “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future!” Despite the nativity scene on the front of the postcard, her holiness didn't get in the way of seeing me as I truly am. She addressed the letter to me, not my old identity, but me. I plan on writing back once I return to my humid, cold home, but I am already struggling with what to say. I guess that is a problem for the future, as the present is already overflowing with problems.
The streets of San Antonio aren't that different from other cities across the United States, with the exception of brash pride in the shape of the state. I can't go a mile on the road without seeing the cutout of Texas glowing in neon, nor can I watch a commercial break without the Lone Star State being brought up, reminding you that you are, in fact, in Texas. The flag that hangs outside of my wife's parent's home, the updated Progress pride flag, stands alone. I have yet to see another pride flag in my time here, but I have seen plenty of Trump paraphernalia, Christian dogma, and conservative propaganda plastered on billboards, paid for by the average Joe. It is admittedly hard to not feel queasy when going out in public, holding my wife's hand. I'm not immediately perceived as a transgender/nonbinary individual, but I am definitely clocked as a queer woman. No bigotry has been directly flung my way, but the drawings on the wall are hard to miss.
It hasn't been easy becoming an adult in the age of blooming fascism. I say this, of course, as a white individual who hasn't feared for my own safety in the face of ICE. Regardless, it hasn't stopped the sinking feeling in my stomach.
I used to be an active volunteer for a nonprofit tracking anti-transgender legislation in the United States, with higher accuracy than the Human Rights Campaign. Alas, the organization has been disbanded, due to the political threat of harm towards transgender individuals. The president of the nonprofit cited concerns for safety for volunteers, primarily the three public faces of the org: himself, the lovely gal who streamed news on Twitch, and myself, who did short-form legislative updates on TikTok. The president of the nonprofit found himself victim to KiwiFarms and other seedy, alt-right corners of the Internet, but luckily no major harm was done (to my knowledge). The social medias of the nonprofit have been scrubbed clean, along with my two years of work. Even so, it feels unfair for me to lament my misery as a white queer person. A lot of the cards I have been dealt have worked in my favor, and I can't forget that. I tried to use that privilege, that safety and certainty in myself, to speak out and be a part of something bigger than myself, but it has crumbled. I want to put myself out there, get back on the frontlines of the fight against fascism in the United States, but I can't help but find myself scared. I understand that the fear is exactly what the opposition, the neo-Nazi conservative party lead by a tacky and cognitively-declining pedophile, wants. They want us to be scared, to be discouraged.
Fuck it, I am discouraged. I have been out of a job for half of this year, living off of unemployment checks. I have no community, no local groups or third places that I can call a home away from home. I don't think I've run out of hope, but I am struggling. I'm mad at the bigoted dogma promoted by billionaires. I'm mad at the ancient book that has been re-translated and rewritten endlessly, the one that taught millions to hate, not love. I want to believe in a god or higher power, just so I can be mad at them, too.
There's nothing I can do tonight, however. I can't change the world from the living room of a barren vacation rental, boasting uninspiring white walls and passive income for wealthy landlords. I guess the least I can do is try to stand up for myself.
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