Transition

I didn’t understand. I didn’t think I could “get” it. How could someone be born in a boy’s body, but not be a boy. It made no sense to me. But I knew it happened.

So I tried really hard to remember back to my childhood.

How did I feel when I was a little girl?

I clearly recalled thinking how happy I was to be a girl. Many boys I saw were loud and obnoxious. They were supposed to be that way. They were expected to not care about privacy. Locker rooms were a free for all. It disgusted me. I was so happy that I could just be myself, playing with the toys I liked, chatting with my friends, using private stalls in clean washrooms. No towel slapping. No wedgies. No wrestling or roughhousing.  I was so relieved that I was a girl.

Now, a twenty-one year old I know is transitioning. As we sat up late talking, I shared my thoughts with them. And they said, imagine feeling the way I did, but not having a girl’s body. Imagine telling people that you weren’t comfortable with the expectations placed on you, but being told, “you were born with boy parts so you should act like a boy.” No matter how awkward you felt.

And it started to dawn on me…I would have been horrified if someone had expected me to act like a boy. I would not have been able to do it. But I was lucky enough to have the body and the heart of a girl, so different demands were not placed on me.

And my transgender friend then told me about the loneliness of growing up outside of society’s norms. Childhood was sad and adolescence, heartbreaking.  

There was a quiet retreat in to screens and fantasy.

No interactions so no expectations.

Solace in solitude.

Twenty-one years was too long to live this way. Twenty-one years of being misunderstood and ridiculed and hurt and shamed. Twenty-one years of isolation.

Their transition is now complete. As their body heals, it begins to match the soul.  The load is lightened. Life can be crazy and fun and happy and shared! Twenty-one years have past. They are over. 

And my strong friend deserves EVERYTHING.

Twenty-one years is too long.

I think I understand now.

(For Alison, with love and admiration.)


©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

                                                                

Celebrate!

The Girl and her Aunt Part 2

Several years ago, I wrote a story about my Auntie Anna. You can read it here:

http://conni-smallboxes.blogspot.ca/2010/07/girl-and-her-aunt.html

A second story needs to be added now.

This past summer, as I helped my parents sort and organize the stuff in their home, in preparation for a move to a seniors apartment, we found a wonderful little treasure. It was a hand-written poem by my aunt, scratched on to a piece of scrap paper.

The original.

The Crimson Tree

It grew in my sister's front yard,

Grew well, glowed amber red.

We played, under and around it

Yesterday.

With Mary, dear little child.

We made a leaf house from it,

And its green and golden neighbours.

Mary laughed and threw leaves

With her Mormor - and me

In the autumn air

By the crimson tree.

I was so happy to have this small note and planned to give it to my daughter, Mary, in the future. But now, a new keepsake has been found. As my parents continued to settle into their suite, a photograph surfaced - a photo of my aunt and my daughter and the crimson tree in 1992.

A memory of her loving playfulness.

A picture of her poem.

Mary McDonald and Anna Paton  1992

Four Thirteen

A three year old girl arrives at this place

With a mom and a dad and two big sisters

A dog and a cat

And three bedrooms to share.

She feels lucky.

Shiny hardwood floors to slip and dance on

And a beige rug that holds the sunlight and shadows

From the picture window

On magical afternoons.

At 413.

Arborite  kitchen shelves to climb up

To watch her mom make brownie cake and fried chicken.

A hidden cutting board that slides out of the countertop

Just the right height when she sits on the red metal stool

To make a cup of cocoa with her dad.

She feels lucky.

A great big basement with a swing

And open stairs to dangle a fishing line from.

Who knew what her sister might tie to the end of it!

Wooden orange crates on the ping pong table are a Barbie doll village.

And the corner in the back, a private spot for shining sunday school shoes.

At 413.

A ten year old girl grows up in this place

With friends on the street

Classmates at school

And far-away cousins that visit sometimes.

She feels lucky.

Skipping double-dutch in the driveway

Hopscotch on the sidewalk

Naughty games of knock-on-ginger before she’s called in

By her dad’s black whistle

Blown three times.

At 413.

  

She climbs into her bed

With the heart-shaped wicker headboard

And admires the yellow flowered wallpaper

The door open just a crack so the hallway light

Will give her some connection with her family

Still up watching tv.

She feels lucky.

A teenage girl rebels in this place

When phone calls need to be long and private

She can stretch the cord into the broom closet

And almost close the door.

Lucky.

When she is crying and heartbroken

She can slam and storm

And tear up pictures

Blast the stereo with the maddest songs she can find

Her sisters stay cool

And her parents do too

Even when she screams

I HATE YOU

413 stays stable

Solid.

Lucky.

A grown-up girl leaves this place

But

When she wants to return

To escape

Or mourn

To celebrate

Or to help her old mom and dad

She finds the house standing firm

Waiting patiently for her.

She feels lucky.

Now

With her parents moved away

She sits quietly

Alone

In the empty bungalow

With her final farewell thoughts

She knows how lucky she was

To grow up in the bungalow

In the middle of the block

At four thirteen.

Lucky 413.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

The Peacock

Self-absorbed arrogance

Preening with pride

Screaming

Look at me look at me look at me.

The acquiescent hen

Follows

Hoping he will notice her

Praying she will be worthy

Of his egotistical

Attention.

A despairing affair

For the flock that loves her.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

Lost & Found: For Dad

Your memories are not lost.

They are found…

• ·      In the minds of the children you taught.
• ·      In the achievements of the kids you coached.
• ·      In the respect of the employees you led.
• ·      In the adventure-filled marriage you shared.
• ·      In the hearts of the daughters you raised.
• ·      In the admiration of the grandchildren you inspired.

Your memories are safe with the people who love you.

Father’s Day 2013

©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

The Experience of Urban Circle

In 2012, I taught Early Childhood Education at Urban Circle Aboriginal Training Centre in Winnipeg, Manitoba. This week, my colleagues (Marc and Anne) and I were asked to speak at a faculty event, describing our experiences teaching in a community-based program. 

Here is my attempt...

“Lock your doors girls,” instructed my well-intentioned dad as we drove south on Main Street approaching the Logan Avenue underpass.

“Are your windows rolled up?” warned my protective mom as we stopped at the red light at Higgins and Main.

And my sisters and I peered out the windows of our ’64 Dodge at the imagined terrors lurking in Winnipeg’s north end.

We were small town girls in the big city.

This is where I learned to be afraid.

I wasn’t sure why. I only knew that “seedy neighbourhood” meant dangerous and poor.

As I grew up, this underlying fear followed me and frustrated me. I felt stuck…caught in a box that I couldn’t climb out of. Sometimes I conformed, but more often, I rebelled. Something just wasn’t right.

So in December, 2011, when I was offered work at Urban Circle, I was intrigued. I was terrified. It was a community-based program but in a community that I had learned to dread.

"I want to but I’m scared," I said to my boss. "Oh you’ll do great," she assured me. So I dragged myself out of the safety of my windowless office and headed over to Selkirk Avenue. I parked my car and RAN to the classroom where I was immediately welcomed with a circle of smiles and the smell of sage. All of a sudden, the fear disappeared.

I was accepted, respected, included and, most importantly, teased! As the newcomer to the group, arriving at the start of the second year, I easily found my place, working side by side with colleagues and students. We all learned together.

Our community was based on trust.

So much so that, only a few months in, I found myself close to naked in a sweat lodge at Thunderbird House (yes, at Higgins & Main!), curled up like a baby, dependent on the guidance of the traditional teacher to get me through. And he did.

Our community was based on equality.

So much so that I opened my home to workshops and feasts and celebrations. And my family joined in too, with my son sharing his musical talents and instruments, my husband sharing his carpentry skills and tools, and even my mom sharing her special tablecloths for our occasional parties!

Our community was based on respect.

So much so that we all tried to reach out to others. To the women and children imprisoned in shelters. To new Canadians trying to find their way. To neighbourhood kids in schools and child care centres. To each other during tough times.

Our community was based on learning from each other.

I could offer my early childhood education experience and sometimes my motherly advice. But I could also receive wisdom….a new respect for nature while medicine picking with elders, a personal perspective on missing and murdered women and children from their sisters and cousins and aunties, and a renewed ability to laugh at myself and at all of our differences and similarities. Some of my nicknames were “the hippie love child of Marc and Anne” (because I was perceived as the balance between two polar opposites), “Half-mark Conni” (when I got too picky) and “Neechi White Lady” (which I consider a great compliment bestowed on me at our final get-together)!

Idle No More!

And so this community-based program taught me to unlock my doors and open my windows. For the first time, I walked on North Main from Higgins to Memorial Boulevard, encircled by grandmothers. And I cried. Because I was out of the box. And I was safe. And I wasn’t afraid. And everything felt right.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

The Toolbox - A Very Short Story

When my son Joe was six years old, my husband gave him a special gift....a set of his very own carpentry tools and a day together making his own toolbox. Joe will be moving out to his own apartment this year. I hope he will make good use of all the tools he has been given...hammers, screwdrivers, saws, patience, practicality, creativity and love.