REBOOT - "Raised By Wolves" is now Recklass In The Next Chapter

It’s summer. Gorgeous afternoon sunshine, heat wave comin’ but not here yet, Chicago Live from Carnegie Hall tellin’ me that it’s “Only Love Beginning,” and I’m … Carried away by it all. It dawns on me, I have always been a California Sunshine Girl (as my father would say with a wistful and proud tenor … usually to my sister Kimm or about any of the various women he met as a car salesman in the infamous Inland Empire). It’s just that you, he and the rest of the world never knew it. But the image of me as a naturally athletic and active woman whose beauty stemmed more from her smile than her wardrobe, who lit up every space she graced, and celebrated the outdoor lifestyle that is our birthright in SoooooCal, is actually my default state of being. Until, that is, I remember that I’m trans. I’ve written about my dance with this moniker, this label, in my book, and I will confess that it is even now, a work in progress. But my personal dance doesn’t matter anymore...

Okay…  Fair disclosure? I have what many women take for granted—some do not want it nor do they seek out; others pretend they don't have it or need it. But what any girl raised by wolves craves, at least on some level, and maybe, probably and tragically will never have is … the company of women. Sisterhood. Now, as much as we try to paint it with a rosy brush, it's not all love and light, even with the communities strung together by letters (oh and shared um... discriminations...). It doesn't seem like it should be a miracle, but then it also doesn't seem like anyone should have to worry where they go potty either ... ah, reality—good old slap your forehead in disbelief, you gotta be kidding me, somebody please wake me up, reality. But yes, it's true. So, that's why having sisterhood is such a rare and precious thing. It's not a given, it's not a done deal. Not even a slam dunk. It's ... a miracle. Yes. it is a miracle, this sisterhood thingy....

Okay… I promised my womanifesto last time and… well, as they say,  I had good intentions. But… please allow me to explain. You see, as I said in the last pages of my book, “Getting Back To Me” from girl to boy to woman in just fifty years, I can’t wait to see the woman I will become. Now, for those of you who have read the book, you had the context to know that what I meant was… well, like, in the future.  Like any sane person, I knew I was always going to mature, grow, get wiser, smarter… you know… like a fine wine, etc. etc. And now that dysphoria’s cloud had dissipated with the rising sun of acceptance’s brilliant light and heat, I could actually… er, um, grow up. But then, as I started to poke my nose back into this thingy called life, and realize that a few things had somehow either slipped my gaze before, or been shot down by my Aegis Defense system (sorry that too is in the book. It’d be easier if you read it and then all these witty metaphors would mak...

… or how do you bring 45 years on the boy’s side of the fence into alignment with being a feminist woman in 2016? Cuz it turns out … that I  am . A feminist that is. That I am and always was a woman isn’t news to anyone by now. But being a feminist is maybe even the harder part of my life for some to swallow. The challenge was for me to decide was I first, second, third wave or … (psst… do we even have a fourth wave yet, I mean official-like and all?) The truth is, I had to go back and look ’em up, because, astute as I am (believe me, when you’re dying of thirst in the desert of identity, a few raindrops of ANY girl talk about anything feminine was enough to get me to the next oasis), I soakedup everything I could along the way.  Even I lost track of the shades of gray. And really, these shades turned out to be black and white (literally in the case of a fourth wave and its splinter group, “White Feminism.” Trust me, you don’t want this shade of pale). And these label...