The internet has exploded with information about Elliot Rodger since his shooting spree left 7 people dead (including himself) in Isla Vista. For the most part, I’ve been keeping up with it, since UCSB is a place I hold close to my heart. A lot of friends from high school went there and I managed to make some friends there while at UCSC. Isla Vista holds some strange, if not fond, memories.
I’ve been following the different angles different news sites have been taking with this story waiting for this story to appear. For those of you who didn’t click the link, the article from Pink News titled, “Fox News Psychotherapist: California Shootings Were Caused by ‘Homosexual Impulses'” tells us that Fox News has decided to reduce Rodger’s actions to those of a gay man, therefore a “lesser” man. At one point in the video, this “psychotherapist” even says that “maybe he couldn’t even feel like a real man.”
I’m hardly surprised. I’m also sick to my stomach.
Let me just say that I know that it’s not worth it to waste words on Fox News. That said, I have seen this opinion floating around the internet in various forms, and wonder just how many people outside of the conversations about misogyny accept this as sound logic. Those who follow Fox represent a significant portion of the voting population. As much as I would like to dismiss it, I can’t. It’s part of a larger problem with the ways we frame masculinity whenever events like this take place.
By turning Elliot Rodger into a gay man, they further uphold the “real man” standard by implying that gay men are not real men. It plays into the American fear of gay men while keeping them outside of the boundary of “real.”
Gay men are real men. Trans-men are real men. Cis-men are real men. In fact, let’s drop the qualifier “real” all together and just say that trans, gay, and cis men are just, simply, men. While the male experience is not universal, the expectation to live as a “real man” is, and that pressure is rarely born out of realistic expectations. We have made the “real man” into a myth that we pressure young folks into being, and punish them for not achieving. Higher rates of depression and suicide are often experienced among gay and trans populations, where they are more than likely to be harassed for not meeting the standard definition of “real”. Even if Elliot Rodger had been gay, it wouldn’t make him any less affected by the pressure of trying to be a “real man” and it wouldn’t make his crime any more despicable.
Violence is committed by “real” men each day. To say that “real men don’t…” turns those literally real acts of violence into abstract ideas by ignoring the fact that literal real men do. The #YesAllWomen hashtag is testament to the actions of real men. Here it is in plain sight: men aren’t violent until they become violent.
Of course some dude will chime in with “Not all men” as his rally cry–that’s not the point. Regardless of whether all or some men are committing acts of violence, enough men do so. It’s possible that not all women have that fear. The reality is that enough do. Enough men make enough women question their safety. Enough is enough.
Fellas, if we’re going to be involved in the discussions about misogyny, we have to get out of the mindset that there is some “real man” standard floating above the actions of everyday, embodied men. It’s time to turn inward and talk about what it means to be men without assigning successes and failures to some ridiculous, hierarchical standard. It’s time to let the myth die by looking at masculinity under a microscope to see both its beauty and its ugliness. Examine it so that we may address those hurts caused by not “measuring up,” and to cultivate a version of masculinity that allows us to be our fullest selves.
My love and prayers are with UCSB and the families that lost their dear ones.
When I read the news that you had been crowned homecoming queen, I thought, “things are changing for the better.” This would have never happened at my high school, but I am about 10 years older than you are, and didn’t have the courage to transition in high school. When I watched this video, I couldn’t help but to feel like I needed to say something. My words may not mean much to you. I am not 16 and trans. I am not a MTF, and I’m well aware of the fact that MTFs often walk a harder path than FTMs. That said, your story is part of my story in this grand gender narrative, and I feel like I would be doing an injustice to you by not reaching out.
Yes, it is hard, and the world can be a mean and cruel place. The internet is even crueler. People in the internet have anonymity that they don’t have in the real world, so they say cruel things without having to take the responsibility for what they have done. That said, I am 10 years older than you, and have seen the world shift so dramatically in that short time towards more acceptance of trans folks. The people who went down this road before me (and you) paved the way for us to be who we are publicly.
The fact is that you ARE a queen and it seems like the folks at your school love you enough to see that. You’re a brave, tender soul who, though strong, needs support. You need to be held up sometimes, and that’s OK. You have support, not just from the folks at your school, but from so many people who admire your courage. Right now, it may seem like you’re only hearing from the idiots who are shouting loudly, but I’ve seen your story across the internet and I can tell you that it’s effecting a lot of people in good ways.
There are hard days. There are days where none of it seems worth it. There are days where getting out of bed is the hardest thing to do. But there are days where the sun shines on all of the beautiful things, and you face the world with a lion’s courage. In 10 years, maybe it won’t be as big of a deal when a trans kid wins homecoming queen or king because you will have helped to change the world into a place where that doesn’t matter.
By all means, cry. Feel your feelings. When you’re done, go back to being the fierce girl that you are. Don’t let the idiots win! You have so much to give.
I take things for granted. I think that’s part of the Western condition. We grow up thinking that our living conditions are unlikely to differ drastically from childhood into adulthood, and we count on that security. We are content. I’ve been thinking about this throughout my move in statements like “I’ll just buy it there,” and “I can always get another one.” There are some things for which these statements hold truth, but there are others where that is not the case.
Watertown was rocked by violence in the aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing. Franklin street–my street–ended up the focal point of this mayhem as SWAT teams and police honed in to capture Dzhokhar Tsarnaev hidden in a boat. To hear my landlord tell the story is pretty amazing. The police hid in the driveway behind his car as SWAT teams and federal forces swarmed in from all directions. No one was sure of anything that day. The police had closed off a 20-block perimeter to search for Tsarnaev, but the perimeter started a block over from where he was hiding. They skipped Franklin street in all of their questioning and door-knocking. The man who found Tsarnaev was just out having a cigarette when he noticed that the shrink wrap on his boat had been disturbed. He then notified the authorities.
I take the way that my life functions on a daily basis for granted. I take for granted the fact that when I see or hear of bad news on the radio or TV that I can just turn it off. I tried to picture myself living in this house in April when all of this went down, unable to turn it off. I don’t know that I would have come out OK. It’s so easy to forget about this sort of thing when it’s not in my face, but when it’s there, I replay it until I can remember every thing down to the ways each time of day smelled. I think it’s the storyteller in me that wants to hold on to those types of details. I want to be able to relay them without any traces of trauma, but those tiny details are often triggers that inhibit my ability to process the story.
My housemates talk about the bombing like it was yesterday. My landlord tells the story so matter-of-factly that I think it helps him in some way. For all I know, he could just talk about it because it’s a damn good story. Either way, he’s let me know that I’ve entered a changed community. What used to be a quiet, neighborly, unassuming area has been infiltrated by a fear that I can’t quite understand. Even so, it’s still the most unassuming neighborhood I’ve called home. No one stares at unfamiliar faces. They say “hello” and go about their business. I haven’t felt the urge to look over my shoulder here. I hope that continues.
I distinctly remember Thursday September 21, 2011. I felt a bit off kilter as if I hadn’t fully woken up all day, and I dreaded having to go to work in the evening. It was the day that Troy Davis was executed in Georgia for a crime that he may not have committed. After rejection of a last minute appeal to the US Supreme Court, he was executed by lethal injection. I had spent months leading up to it informing myself of the case and all the appeals thinking that this time they had to do something in favor of him with the illusive “they” being the US court system and “him” being a black man on death row. They didn’t. I worked my usual 2:30 to 10:30 with an indescribable feeling of heaviness in my bones. Troy Davis died at 11:08pm EDT.
This was also the day that I met Emily. I’ve only encountered her twice in my life. The first time, she came through my line with a small basket of snacks and informed me that she was doing pretty lousy because “they” were about to execute an innocent man. Right then, I wanted to cry because for some reason I felt like I had been seen. It was as if she was speaking directly to my heart and could tell that I was feeling the same thing. I told her that I was trying to stay positive. The court hadn’t rejected the appeal as of 4pm PST. By 6pm, she had called the store to let me know that the court did indeed reject the appeal, and that she was praying for Troy, his family, and me. The second time we met, we were surrounded by a group of unlikely mutual friends. By this time, both of us had forgotten that we had met previously. We all discussed current events and the conversation naturally flowed to the George Zimmerman trial. Once again, Emily was praying, this time for the Martin family, and for George Zimmerman.
Praying is difficult because people have a hard time being vulnerable. We have a hard time opening ourselves to our real needs because those needs might be covered by the dark places in ourselves that we all fear. When we look at this passage, the message is so obvious that it’s difficult to let it wash through the soul to figure out what it’s really trying to communicate. Jesus teaches us to pray in the way that children address their parents. Pray as vulnerably as children would. Children are exposed, raw masses of emotion that couldn’t mask how they truly feel even if they try. Jesus teaches us to pray with this type of unbridled, shameless emotion using simple requests:
Father, bring your kingdom and your justice to us. Give us enough food today to eat today. Give us the forgiveness that we give to others. Do not let others persecute us for who we are.
Simple requests of dire necessity: feed us, forgive us, and bring us justice. Most importantly, let us live to ask again tomorrow. I’m sure that the people who followed Jesus throughout his journey witnessed the urgency of this prayer. It was dangerous to be a Jesus-follower then. There was no guarantee of food, and they were likely to be killed if found. Today, these are all things that we take for granted. Many of us have access to so much food that we waste tons upon tons of it each year. We feel entitled to forgiveness once an apology is made regardless of whether the apology came from a significant amount of self-work in understanding our errors and how to change. We take the very lives we live for granted. In a society where abundance is the norm, we don’t think to pray for things that we think we already have, just the things we want. Often times, what we want most is change.
I’ve learned that change happens in waves. The Civil Rights Movement happened in three waves. The abolition of slavery all the way through Reconstruction was the first wave. The second wave was Brown v. Board and the desegregation of the South all the way through the Black Power movements of the 60s and 70s. The third wave appeared in the form of Affirmative Action and the growth of the feminist movements, the gay rights movement, and the farm worker’s movement. I do believe that we are on the verge of a fourth wave. This fourth wave wants to deconstruct the systemic structures of racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia.
If you’ve been paying attention to the national news, you may have noticed that there a lot more stories with underlying racism than usual. It’s an elephant in the room that everyone wants so badly to ignore, but it’s right there staring us in the face. That people can stalk, harass, and shoot my brothers terrifies me. That a woman of color in the same state who fired warning shots at her abusive husband can’t claim the self defense and is facing 20 years in prison. Some of these cases spur some action from folks on the outside: justice for Troy Davis, CeCe McDonald, the New Jersey 7, Oscar Grant. All of these movements, though, have been tightly focused on one individual without applying their message more broadly. Justice for Troy Davis; what about me? What about you? With the recent verdict on the Zimmerman trial, the question of how we demand justice for all of us has been on the forefront of my mind. Maybe it’s because Trayvon Martin likely could have been me or my brother or any one of my male cousins. Maybe it’s because justice is an essential piece of God’s kingdom. Maybe, just maybe, it’s because I have this idea that once we figure this out, we will be able to unravel all of our oppressive histories and weave them together to create something beautiful. This is the fourth wave: justice ringing out through the vibrations of many hearts beating with love for all of our brothers and sisters regardless of religion, gender identity, sexuality, or skin color.
In bell hooks’ book All About Love, she writes, “When angels speak of love they tell us it is only by loving that we enter an earthly paradise. They tell us paradise is our home and love our true destiny.” If you look outside of one of these windows, you will see the tops of trees stretching out to the bluest ocean. This is paradise. It’s right here. It can be anywhere, so long as we can stop fearing and start loving one another. We must change whatever it is in us that causes prejudice and hatred.
This is something we need, and it starts with prayer.
We have to pray with patience and perseverance. Verses 5-13 teach us that God answers prayers period—no ifs, ands, or buts. Ask and you shall receive, search and you shall find, knock and the door will be opened for you. One thing that we have to understand is that we cannot begin to understand the will of God, and that sometimes, like all parents, God says no. Sometimes we ask for things that aren’t good for us. Maybe there’s something better in store than what it is that we’re asking. Maybe that hardship is an opportunity for growth that we need more than whatever it is that we’re asking. This doesn’t mean that we have done anything wrong. It means that we sometimes need reminders that we don’t have all the answers, and that we’re not always right. Sometimes, we don’t know what we need (I don’t). Søren Kierkegaard, one of my favorite philosophers, said, “The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays.” Our prayers will not incite a change in God, but they will excite God to change us. That’s what we want right? We want to know that God will excite a change in us such that we can move mountains and touch hearts all the while working together to do so. We want to be God’s people, living in God’s kingdom, doing God’s work on Earth. The very first thing we have to do is pray. We have to pray while doing the work. Then we have to pray once the work is done because it’s likely that there’s actually more work.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend Emily and whether I will see her again. She has no idea how much she’s impacted my life in two brief encounters. All I can say is that she has become a role model for me in prayer. Gandhi said, “Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one’s weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.” We all have weaknesses. We are all broken and we have all fallen apart at some time. All of our souls have longings for things like love, justice and peace. We just have to keep ourselves open to asking.