The Literal Body Politic

Photo credit: susans.org
Don’t worry. Let me put you at ease: I’m staying in my lane over here. You can breathe. Please do.
The current politics of the LGBTQIA+ body are astounding to me. And they are, make no mistake, the politics of the body. Why you’d want to police someone else’s body is completely beyond me.
When I was in high school in the early 90's South, there was a sudden controversy regarding a gay teacher. I remember someone mentioning it to my mother, assuming she would be appalled. I’ll never forget her response.
“I don’t think the teachers should be fucking the students, so why does it matter?”
Good point, right?
It never seemed odd to me that we were in the church every time it was open, we were at the country club for every event, and my mom constantly had gay men over for coffee. We drove to another county for a gay man to cut our hair, in the land of Aqua Net.

My mother was, in parlance some of the young folk now find offensive, a Republican Fag Hag far ahead of her time.
I didn’t realize until my 40's that my mother’s friend who frequented our guest room was probably a lesbian. She didn’t seem accepted by many people, and I identified with that and latched on to her. When I saw her in public I embraced her. She was our family friend. She always seemed shocked to be loved up close instead of from a polite distance.
She wasn’t in town often but whenever she was she stayed with us. Her family.
I don’t recall my mother ever once mentioning the sexuality of a single one of these people. They were people. They were her friends. She didn’t discuss the sex lives of heterosexuals so it didn’t even stand out.
And now? Now I’m expected to discuss the sex lives and genders and genitalia and orientations of anyone who doesn’t present as white, CIS, and “at least trying to pass?”
No.
None of my business.
My motto is, unless you are fucking me then it’s all you. You can be bi, trans, gender fluid, any currently persecuted group. None of my business.
Are you a nice person? Are you interesting? Awesome. Come over for coffee.
Because that’s how my Fag Hag mother raised me. To love people for their hearts and not their parts.
I’m so pissed off about the trans military announcement (via Twitter, another rant entirely) that I want to punch someone. And it doesn’t affect me at all. I’d never be brave enough to volunteer. Why police a person with courage by saying their identity isn’t good enough?
I’ve spent years saying I can imagine no worse torture than living inside the wrong body. I need to revise that statement. Living inside the wrong body and being treated the way trans people are treated is worse.
Obituaries listing dead names break my heart. No one bats an eye when anyone else changes their name. I didn’t pick mine. I don’t like it. It doesn’t fit me. Imagine living with the wrong name in the wrong skin. Imagine people you love refusing to honor your choices for their own selfish reasons.
I wish I could be my mother and send out the Safe Friend vibes she clearly radiated. She didn’t seek people out. She didn’t have a morbid fascination or a secret agenda. People saw her acceptance, and came in for coffee. That simple. Acts of friendship.
The very courtesy to guests that some people choose to forget is in their instruction book.
I guess my walls are too thick. My written boundaries are nonexistent but in person I’m not the same. I’d imagine some people think I’m cold.
I’m not. I’m full of warm embraces, and I make good coffee. Or at least I know where to find a great latte.
