Being a Catholic parent of one gay and one lesbian young adult has meant for me a long journey to understand how those two important portions of my identity can both be gifts. I am Catholic to the core of my being; I love the Church, the Eucharist, the liturgy, the Marianist family to which I belong.

At the same time I love my two gay children deeply and unconditionally. I struggle with the Church’s teaching: On the one hand, the bishops have taught us in “Always Our Children,” to embrace our children and that God loves every person as a unique individual. On the other hand, gays are called “objectively disordered”; they are not welcomed or in some cases even acknowledged in our parishes.

If they are talked about, it is often in negative terms. In our family’s parish a pamphlet called “Homosexuality and Hope” published by the Catholic Medical Association was distributed in a workshop called “To Have Life and Have It Abundantly." The pamphlet states that homosexuality may be caused by one or more in a list of nine negative causes, among which are sexual abuse or rape, a controlling mother or a distant father. Not surprisingly, gays feel ignored and in exile, and as a parent of two gay children, I am silenced. This is a strange sort of doublespeak — how can a child of God be objectively disordered? Why are his parents’ voices taken away?

Although I have been smacked in the head by my powerlessness more than once in my life, like most Americans I still unthinkingly at times buy into the myth of being in control of myself, my destiny, others and the world.

When my son told my husband and me that he was gay about eight years ago, we were not surprised. We had suspected as much for several years, and were in some ways relieved. But the news brought a grief reaction: Maybe it was our fault; maybe we had been “too liberal," too accepting. We worried about the safety of our then 18-year-old son; would he make good decisions and act out of integrity with regard to his sexuality?

We also feared that his life would be much harder as a gay person than as a straight man. In the end we talked to him about our apprehensions, but we also trusted that he would be the responsible person that he had always been.

The powerlessness I felt then had to do not only with worries about his safety but also with loss. He has the caring nature that would make such a good father, and he may never be one now! There will never be a traditional marriage to a woman or a conventional nuclear family. I still sometimes mourn for what could have been while I love my son for who he is in the present moment: a creative, caring man with a talent for designing new spaces as well as for assisting others to reconcile.

Four years later, our daughter first told us she might be gay and then eventually she confirmed her sexual orientation. We had never suspected she was gay; this was a different scenario. Again there was a grief reaction and a fear that her life would not be easy because of her orientation.

It was a stretch for me to accept that we have two gay children. It wasn’t up to me, however, to decide whether or not she was gay. She is still the same daughter we always knew and loved, a very warm, talented and passionate young woman with a wonderful sense of humor who is a much loved part of our family.

At this point, if someone gave me a magic wand and told me that with a wave I could cause both of them to be straight, I wouldn’t do it because it would change an integral part of who they are, the totality of which is a gift of God to our family and our community.

What is most difficult to accept is that the Church hierarchy makes pronouncements about homosexuality without listening to the experiences of gays and their families. My hope is that there will at some point be forums where we are asked to share what we have lived. As Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., puts it in  Kitchen Table Wisdom, “Listening is the oldest and perhaps the most powerful tool of healing. It is often through the quality of our listening and not the wisdom of our words that we are able to effect the most profound changes in the people around us...Listening creates a holy silence.”

So on this day it is clear to me that I am not in as much control of myself, my destiny, and others, much less the world as I would often like to be. I am working to accept the grief when it comes to me, to love and enjoy my two gay children for who they are and to do what I can in asking the Church hierarchy to listen to my experiences. When friends or co-workers listen to my story with empathy, mentally entering into what I’m feeling, it is one of the greatest gifts they can give me.

Letting go of expectations, listening to each other’s stories and accepting one another for who we are ... isn’t this all we can expect of one another?
Beth Garascia
 
  Blessings! We are recipients of SO many. Our Faith, our Faith Community, the love and acceptance of our God. With hearts overflowing with gratitude we want to share a beautiful story made possible because of the gift of our precious son Scott, who happens to be gay.
In 1996 when Scott came out to us we were overwhelmed with a myriad of feelings; fear, pain, loss, hopelessness, shame, guilt, powerlessness, devastation and betrayal.
Today, thirteen years later, we continue to be amazed at the blessing Scott’s orientation is to our family.

After ten plus years of ministry to parents of LGBT children we have begun a new journey with our faith community. As a result of parishwide catechesis, two beautiful sets of same gender parents and their children have become our dear and precious friends.

The first gay family to touch our lives, Ron-Michael, his partner of 11 years, Anthony, and their precious son Nate (4) were joined by our second beautiful family, Ellyn, her partner of 6 years, Cathy, and their precious daughters, Grace (7) and Sophie (4). We have shared dinner with this “crew” on several occasions following our Saturday evening liturgy. We are privileged to call each friend and to share a deep love and mutual support with these families.

All three of the children are enrolled in our Parish Faith Formation Program. Ellyn tells this story;
A couple of weeks ago Grace and Sophie were sitting at the kitchen table creating beautiful works of art while Ellyn prepared dinner. In the midst of her art work Sophie said “Mom, I was thinking about Jesus’ family.” Ellyn asked “ ... and what were you thinking?” Four-year-old Sophie responded, “Well, in Jesus’ family there were two dads, Joseph and God the Father, and then there was the birth-mom, Mary”
With great joy, Sophie then proclaimed:
“Mom, Jesus’ family is ‘just’ like Nate’s family”
And so there we have it. Out of the mouths of babes!
Terri and Rich Dalke
  The Diocese of Memphis Catholic Ministry with Gay and Lesbian Persons was founded with this simple principle: We all want to be welcome at home, we all have a place at the table. Our Ministry hosts a potluck on the 1st Tuesday of the month, and we have a Parent Support Group that meets bimonthly.

I have, for almost a year, attended a faith sharing/Bible study group at Lindenwood Christian Church in midtown Memphis. I go with a friend, also Catholic, who has really enjoyed the open, welcome atmosphere at this church.

I had only attended a few sessions when in sharing, one of the guys referred to himself as a “recovering Catholic.” I always feel badly when I hear that, as I have a son who feels the same way. I am happy that these guys have found a home for themselves in this wonderful church, but I want them to understand that OUR Cathedral parish is also a welcome place.

After visiting in this group for a couple of months, I invited the guys who sat near me to come to my church and join us at our 1st Tuesday Potluck. They came, and had a great time, and a few months later, after hearing the "recovering" phrase again, I invited the entire group. There were about a dozen from the faith sharing group who came, and we are blessed that they are there to share their stories and different religious traditions with our group. We have a simple format, a blessing, potluck supper, evening prayers and/or a presentation, and dessert. Dinner and dessert give us a chance to get to know each other and discuss the presentation. The main purpose of our ministry is hospitality. Every one is welcome in my church, and if a potluck in the church basement is the first Catholic place "recovering Catholics" feel comfortable, then I am blessed to be a part of it.

In March our evening prayer was the “way of the cross.” This particular service was in honor of AIDS ministries, and was written in our parish. We had the opportunity to share this tradition with people who have never walked the “stations,” but for whom the AIDS ministry holds special meaning. Their participation enriched our service, and I was moved that we could it share with them.

As the Catholic parent of a gay son, I feel blessed to be living in the diocese of Memphis. We have a thriving Catholic Ministry with Gay and Lesbian Persons, and a committed Parent Support Group. My son lives in another state, and has not found his "church home" yet, but I continue to pray that he does.

Our CMGLP began with the blessings of Bishop Terry Steib, and was inspired by a Cathedral parishioner, who had lost her son to suicide. If you get the chance, the Bishop’s letter is posted on the website for our diocese, as is Millicent Cobb’s letter that talks about her precious Steve, and his life and death.

Deb Word

 
LESBIAN DAUGHTERS
 
  About 10 years ago, my wife, Florence, and I and several other parishioners started the Welcoming the Whole Family Committee at St. Andrew Parish in Portland, OR. Our effort was to make our parish welcoming to all especially to persons who are gay or lesbian. Our immediate motivation was the fact that we have twin, adult, lesbian daughters who no longer went to church. The 10 or so persons on this committee also began to meet as a Small Faith Community. Father Bob, our former Pastor, was a great promoter of Small Faith Communities. He wanted to increase their number in our Parish. So one day he called and asked a person from each of the four Small Faith Communities to give a brief, three minute testimonial that coming Sunday during the Eucharist.

I did not tell Florence what was going to happen. I prayed and jotted down some thoughts. Despite misgivings and fears about what I was to say, that Sunday morning I walked to the microphone when my turn came and spoke briefly about how this group had increased my faith; how our discussions had made me appreciate the Scriptures more. Finally I spoke about our twin, lesbian daughters who had been baptized at St. Andrew, but who no longer came here because they did not find what the Vatican and some Bishops and priests were saying about their sexual orientation very welcoming or even Christian. I spoke that Sunday morning about the Mission Statement of St. Andrew. About how it is based on Christ’s own mission of inclusive love stated in Luke, Chapter 4:18. That he was sent by God to
“bring the good news to the poor,
proclaim liberty to captives,
and to the blind new sight,
set the downtrodden free,
proclaim the Lord’s year of favor.”

I told them I had learned in our Small Faith Community that when and if our daughters ever decide to return to this parish that they would find a loving people of God waiting for them and a safe and love filled church. And that I was sure they would be welcomed with love and understanding.

There was a stunned silence for several seconds after I spoke. Then applause. When I returned to my seat, Florence gave me a hug. A middle-aged man, a gay parishioner who was sitting in front of us and who attended school at St. Andrew and has never wavered in his faith despite everything, turned and smiled and thanked me. Looking back, I know I never would have found the courage to stand up and say this except for the Spirit helping me. To my knowledge, this was the first time the words “gay” or “lesbian” had ever been spoken in this church.
Fast forward 10 years to January, 2005. The weekend of January 21-23, 2005, St. Andrew had its annual parish retreat at a Retreat House in a rural setting in the woods. About 40 attended along with our new Pastor, Father Chuck Lienert. It was mostly a silent, contemplative retreat. We were looking at our parish to see who we are and where we are going. We thought and prayed and talked about whether we have been as inclusive and welcoming and devoted to Christ’s message in Luke Chapter 4 as we should be.

At Saturday breakfast I was sitting next to a young mother, Mary, who has two daughters of grade school age. We talked about our children. She told us about her daughters in grade school. Mary told us that they have friends who have “two moms.” And her children ask Mary questions about this. She answers their questions in a loving, straightforward way. Mary says that her daughters “have no problem with this. That they find nothing strange in this family situation.” Then Mary looked at me and said: “I still remember that Sunday morning when you got up and talked about your daughters and St. Andrew and how they would find at St. Andrew a safe and loving place when they chose to return.”

The message of Christ’s love has been passed on to another generation. A small light has been passed to the young mother and now to the two young daughters. As parents of our wonderful lesbian adult daughters we can hope that this love, this light will burn away the hatred and fear still found in the church of Christ. The Spirit asks us for the courage to speak of God’s love for all of us!
Steve Balog
 
 
  "Michelle, look at the letters again, then turn to me and tell me how to spell your name. You can do it!” my father said encouragingly. I am standing in front of a life-sized cutout of an Indian chief with my name spelled out along his tall frame. I have tears of frustration running down my face, and I am angry because I can’t remember how to spell my darn name, even though it’s right there in front of me. And I can’t figure out why I was given such a silly girl’s name anyway!
I was born Michelle Marie Girard on Good Friday, April 4, 1969. According to my mother, I was a restless baby girl who was in an awful hurry to be born. The doctor almost didn’t make it into the delivery room on time because I was already halfway out of my mother’s womb by the time he got there. I was shortly thereafter taken home to my older sister and brother. As I grew, I tended to attach myself to my brother and played only with him. I really didn’t “get” my older sister. She was only two and a half years older than I, and all she wanted to do was play with her dolls and get me to play “house” with her. I wanted nothing to do with her games or “girlie” ways. I just couldn’t fathom anyone wanting to involve themselves with such things. I had thought myself a boy and therefore had no time for “frilly” things.

Little did I know but I was in for a rude awakening. One day when I was around the tender age of five, my sister, brother and I had decided we would all play “doctor”. When we got around to showing what we had to pee with, I was truly shocked to see that I was “built” the same as my sister! What?!? What happened to my “peepee”???

Surely, it would grow soon and catch up to being like my brother’s! Wouldn’t it? This somehow seemed to explain to me why my mother kept insisting on doing awful things to me like curling my hair and making me wear dresses like my sister instead of letting me wear suits to church like my brother. Until then, I couldn’t understand why they kept trying to turn me into a girl. I had put up many valiant struggles against my mother to try and show her how wrong she was about me, but she just wasn’t getting it! But on that fateful day the awful truth came slamming home. I was a girl! But I just couldn’t understand how this could be since I sure didn’t feel like one! I just couldn’t accept this to be true of my inner self.

I was fortunate in one respect, though. My parents did indulge me in purchasing boy toys and clothing. I felt natural and more like the “real” me when I got to dress as a boy. But I still had to please my mother on occasion by wearing a dress to church, or when we went out for dinner, and no amount of screaming, crying or foot stomping would change her mind. I just had to put up with it. It was sheer agony and such sweet, blessed relief for me when we would come home and I could rip those dresses off of me!

By the time I was ten, my parents had divorced and my father had remarried a woman with a Pentecostal background. She had fallen away from the faith of her childhood, but was looking to return to her roots. At this point in my life I was already forced to face the “fact” that I was of the female persuasion because boys stopped playing with me and the teachers kept scolding me for the way I talked, sat, and walked. My father especially would also harp on me about these things. I was forced into playing with the girls, but they were so boring! I couldn’t understand them nor could they understand me. Suddenly, I was in a “no man’s land” and felt very much like an outsider. Who was I? WHAT was I? I just didn’t seem to fit! Making friends was starting to become difficult for me because I could not relate to anyone, so I began to try to be with the grownups. Maybe they were “where it was at.” At least my parents were still letting me dress as a boy and letting me keep my hair short!

Then one day the bottom dropped out of my world. By this time, my stepmother had found a church she wanted us to attend and a family meeting was called. We all agreed to attend this church so we could learn more about God. I did not know at the time what this would mean for me. The church my stepmom had found was a “holiness” Pentecostal church where the dividing line between men and women was very strict. Soon I found myself forced to wear skirts, and I couldn’t cut my hair – not even a trim! I was taught that my salvation depended on my obedience and submissiveness to men since this was “biblical truth” as God ordained things to be. Wanting to be pleasing to God, I fell in with this teaching and could not have known just how wrong it was at the time. To go against these things was to be in direct rebellion against God Himself! I couldn’t allow that to happen, but it did almost cost me my life. I found myself contemplating suicide many times because I could not stand to live this way, and found myself at odds daily with my parents over these teachings. None of the things this church taught made me feel any more female than the man on the moon. I felt like I lost myself in all of this. I came to know of God as someone who loved me enough to send His Son to die for my sins, but was very exacting and demanding of what He wanted of me and I felt that I never measured up in pleasing Him. My image of God remained the same throughout my teen years and young adulthood. You can imagine what happened to those skirts and the long hair as soon as I had a say in things!

But because of all that I had learned about God, I didn’t realize just how much of myself was lost to me for many years. Just how detrimental things were, I can only now see in hindsight. I have at present five failed marriages behind me, and one and a half years of hard won sobriety from a deeply entrenched alcoholism. Over a period of seventeen years it took ever increasing amounts of alcohol just to make it through a day and cope with my existence. It reached a point at which I was drinking over 1.5 liters of wine every day ... EVERY DAY! I couldn’t make myself desire any of my husbands sexually, and I tried! If only they didn’t insist on having sex! I would stay up late at night sometimes wondering what was wrong with me. Also, on some days I would try to “glamour up” in an attempt to make myself feel more “womanly.” I would study the way other women dressed and behaved, but I only ended up feeling like I was in some kind of play or theater role. I would try so hard to walk like a lady, but to no avail. I only ended up coming home and washing off the makeup, tearing off the girlie clothes and quickly getting into my T-shirts and sweats and feeling much relief at the end of the day.

I had no idea how much things would change for me after my fifth and final divorce. We had divorced because I suspected my husband was gay. I had caught him in some awkward moments that gave rise to my suspicions and decided the marriage was over. We had an amicable divorce since I thought, “Hey, if he’s gay he can’t change that!” I was hurt but felt that the marriage had actually died long before we made the decision to split. Out of eight and a half years of marriage, we only consummated our marriage during the first year and then not too often! I was just never comfortable having sex! At the time, it seldom occurred to me that I just wasn’t attracted to men sexually. I could not begin to acknowledge that I might be attracted to women because homosexuality was such an abomination in the eyes of God that I just couldn’t offend God in that way! Or so I had been taught for very many years. I would also flash back on occasion to my crazy hopes I had when I was very young – that I would grow up to be a man, and if they only had operations for that sort of thing, how I would have pursued that to no end!
I let these things go and stopped giving them serious thought because ... that would be an abomination to God. Wasn’t I already sinful enough with my alcoholism?

I forgot to mention that by the time of our divorce we had converted to Catholicism, and I felt like I finally found the Holy Grail! I had found THE Truth!!! However, my beliefs about God remained the same and were even more solidly entrenched because now I knew the Truth and somewhere in the book of Hebrews, it mentions that it is impossible to bring back a soul to repentance once that soul has learned the Truth and tasted the “heavenly gifts,” so now what?
Just at a time when I was considering looking for another husband because I hate to be alone, my ex-husband came out to me as a transsexual. Wow! Suddenly a lot of the things “he” did throughout our marriage made so much more sense! She even loaned me some books on the subject and I devoured them. I felt like the scales had fallen from my eyes and I was relieved and shocked by what I came to know about myself. Things made a lot more sense to me about myself, too! I was so glad to know why I always felt like an outsider among women, and people in general, throughout my life. But what about God? How was I going to face God and deal with my increasing desire to transition from female to male and be more fully myself while trying to be pleasing to God as well? At this point, I also finally admitted that it was women I wanted to be with and not men, so the search for a male companion abruptly came to an end. I realized I would only be repeating the same tired old cycle in my life unless the man didn’t ever want to be intimate.

The revelation of my own transsexuality and my determination ... no, NEED to transition, coupled with the desire for female intimate companionship, very nearly shattered my faith in the Catholic Church and in God. What kind of God would do this to a creation He is purported to love so much? It was at this time that a very kind priest suggested that I meet with Sister Monica, a Catholic nun who ministers to such weary souls as mine. I am very grateful to the priest and to Sister Monica, because if it were not for these two people, I most likely would have abandoned religion and a large part of hope that I have overall as to my final outcome when I finish this life of mine.

I don’t have all of my spiritual issues resolved and my walk with God is far from close! Sometimes I am still tortured by society’s attitudes toward people like me, and by many who call themselves Christian who would desire that we just go away and not disturb their “neat, orderly” worlds anymore. We are still shunned, ridiculed, and even killed just for being different. I envy other people for their “normalcy” almost every day! I still fight the waves of pain when I go into Church and see men with their wives and children who don’t have to struggle with who they are because the gender of their brain matches their body. (At least, I think so!) What a feeling of wholeness it must be when brain matches the body! Not having had any surgery and not knowing if I ever will, I don’t know if or when I’ll reach that feeling of wholeness. I hope I find it whether I ever have surgery or not.

Sister Monica reminds me that it’s okay to be me just the way I am and that God loves me and has a purpose for me anyway! I struggle to see that in my daily life and am only now beginning to enjoy the Catholic Church again even though the Vatican considers me very disordered. I do finally realize this though ... Who are they to say? They are but mere men who have a difficult job of trying to maintain orthodoxy of faith in an ever changing and shifting world. In the words of Jesus, I must forgive them because “they know not what they do” concerning individuals like me. But I deeply hope that they do come to know people like me, even if it isn’t in my lifetime!
I also still feel like an outsider because I’m not fully male, but not female either. Though I feel apart from gender congruent people, for the first time I am beginning to see my condition as a gift that can be used in service to other people, and hopefully, being a bridge for the perceived divide between the “two genders.” I also hope to see that humankind comes to realize that there really are more than two genders. They are not monolithic states of being but truly a continuum, like so much else in this world.

This is my story and it is far from over. My transition from female to male is very much in process, and so is my understanding and relationship with God. I am grateful to the many others who are like me and have gone before me. Their stories continue to touch me and to enrich me, for they are witness to such courage and strength, the likes of which I have not seen before.
Sean Thomas
 
  I am a multifaceted person, as most folks are. One of my facets is photography, which started from a Polaroid camera gifted to me when I finished eighth grade. In the twenty-five plus years since, it’s become a semi-professional hobby. Light completely changes the character of a photo. The best photos are not taken at high noon or in the dark of night. The photos with the most character are often taken in the moments of twilight: sunrises, sunsets, or not far from it.
Some of my other facets include that I am Catholic; a scientist (an engineer, to be precise), a musician, an actor, an outdoorsman, a literary critic, a mentor, an amateur theologian and historian ... a bit of a modern day renaissance man, perhaps. I am also a transman, also known as a female-to-male transsexual. That’s the facet that has tended to be problematic for me and for others. I have always been male, but when I was young, I was not always consistently seen as such. In fact, there were constant expectations made by those who "knew better" for me to be someone I wasn’t, namely a female. I never met those expectations.

I never knew what was “wrong” with me as I was growing up. I was "myself" as often as I could be as soon as I could be. I went by male names in grade school, and was commonly "mistaken" for a boy. When I would be taken for my father’s son, my dad would make a point of correcting that assumption, making sure that I was shamed in the process to try and make me stop being so boyish. He was a military officer and having a kid like me was an embarrassment to him. Teachers would tell me that I would “grow out of it” which infuriated me. I knew who I was ... I just didn’t know how to explain it so that they could understand. I knew that I was a boy, somehow caught up in a set of female references that I couldn’t get rid of. I relished every moment that I was seen as a boy and called by the right set of pronouns, because that made me feel alive and validated. In those moments, I felt that I was in the light and not invisible.
As a Catholic, I am somewhere between a convert and revert. My parents were both raised Catholic, but I didn’t know that until I was almost fifteen. I grew up between my dad’s hostility towards religion and my mom’s exploration of different faith traditions. I was baptized when I was eight, in third grade, in the Episcopal Church, at a “high” church (almost Catholic) and received my First Communion that same day. I became an acolyte (altar boy) in that Episcopal Church. When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents told me that I was supposed to be Catholic, and that I would be going to Confirmation classes. I was confirmed the following spring and took the name Patrick. There was some slight consternation over my choice of confirmation name, since I had chosen a very masculine name, but neither the priest nor the bishop thought it was an issue, luckily for me.

I had more than my fair share of medical issues as I was growing up. I was a frequent flier at the emergency room between my ability to catch germs and break bones. I held out hope for years that during one of the visits to the doctor, they’d find IT — the thing that was wrong with me, and that I was really a boy, and that thinking I was a girl was all a misunderstanding. They never did. The onset of a "normal female puberty" was hell and a half. I hated everything that happened, and was despondent. I had tried to find what was "wrong" with me when I was in seventh grade. The library helped some. I found anatomy and descriptions of gay and straight, but none of that helped me with what I was feeling. I declared myself a “nothing” as none of the labels fit. I tried to be me — a male being — as much as I could despite the female anatomy, and assumed that the normal future other kids expected was not for me.

I didn’t find the name for what I was until I went to college and spent a Saturday researching in the library. That’s when I found the word transsexual. While it was great to be able to finally name “it” I was also terrified. There was so much stigma and pain to anticipate. There were moments in my later teenage years and early twenties when I was suicidal. I was in the midst of pursuing a degree in electrical engineering. There were many dark nights when I despaired for my future, of ever being able to find employment after finishing my degree, of being alone. My identity was trapped in the eyes of my beholders, my reactions dictated in that split second whether they decided if I was male or female. Job interviews were often decided in that split second. Dating wasn’t even a possibility. I was a great friend, but not a romantic prospect.
I stayed Catholic during high school while attending a conservative parish. The Newman Center at college was the opposite end of the spectrum and very liberal. I drifted back to the Episcopal Church as a freshman and did not go back to the Catholic Church until I was thirty. It was comforting to be in a more traditional liturgical church and not questioned. If they knew, no one asked. I wasn’t denied the light of Christ as I struggled with my own darkness, nor was I told that I was darkness incarnate.

I finally came to a job interview where my then androgynous appearance was not an immediate issue. I started medical intervention at twenty-four, shortly after starting that first job out of college. My first few years of employment were tough. There were no protections and I was the hottest rumor at the company. I had to work harder to make my performance and my other characteristics more visible than the second puberty I was undergoing.

Presently there is no mistaking that I am male, so that facet, which used to be a blinding, disabling part of my daily existence, is now a shadowy part of my history. Or, so it would seem to most casual observers once they are made aware of my past.
Shadows have substance. Light has meaning. As a Native American author put it in his memoir, “You are your history.”

I bear the physical scars; anatomical differences compared to a cis-gendered man; the memories of a frustrated youth, of being invisible in my own life; the emotional scars and wounds, some of which lie dangerously close to the surface. I wouldn’t be the man I am without them.

Going back to the Catholic Church at thirty was a breeze. I had been confirmed, never married, and I didn’t feel the need to volunteer my past at the re-entrance interview. Subsequent confessions, where I did mention that I was trans, did not go poorly. While I was consistently the “first one” that each priest knew that they’d spoken to, they were all kind, and sent the message of “go forth and live.” I stayed quietly in the shadows.

I lived what trans folks call a "stealth" existence for years. I didn’t tell people of my history. People I met had no reason to suspect I was anything but a normal man. Only the friends that stuck with me throughout were aware of the issues I’d faced; only they had the images for what I had been in their memory. About ten years on, I started to realize that I had very few people I could be completely open with, about “anything.” I was censoring myself to others because I didn’t want to tell anyone that I wasn’t fully male as that “assumption” on the part of others was still so validating to me. I had created a new darkness.

As I was slowly starting to contemplate coming out of that stealth shell, exiting that closet all over again, I met a Catholic nun whose ministry was to the trans community. I started dating a woman who would not let me stay in my box. In large part because of them I started to expand my horizons. I have had to confront issues over friendships, stealth, intimacy, and my own sexual orientation that I’d left buried.

Having Sister “Monica” in my life was a Godsend. Not only did she become my spiritual director, she became a beloved friend. She challenged me to accompany her to a national Catholic gay and lesbian ministry conference. She had been asked to do a presentation on her ministry among transgender people and wanted me to participate as part of her presentation. That conference was an experience. Two bishops were scheduled to speak. The first, an American, was scheduled for Friday night. He was under political pressure and toed the Catholic hierarchy party line. He did not make eye contact as he spoke. To his credit, he stayed and let all of the attendees, most of whom were extremely distraught, vent at him. That was a crucifixion of sorts. The second bishop, a Mexican, spoke later. I have never met a man who so personified Jesus incarnate. He was loving, accepting, and had an uncanny knack for appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, to personally talk with people. I was taking my bags out of my stateroom, hoping I’d get a chance to talk with him when he “appeared” to me. We had a conversation in broken English that was one of the most spiritual I’ve experienced. I felt enveloped by the Church after that weekend.

Two months later, at a Christmas address to the curia, Pope Benedict made comments that slammed the church door in my face, saying that there needed to be an ecology of the human race, and those like me needed to be pruned like weeds from the rainforest. To say I’ve been heartbroken is an understatement.

I once attended a lecture by a rabbi regarding Jewish tradition and gender. The Hebrew language in the Talmud allows for six different genders. Obviously, this included people who were born physically intersexed. The rabbi explained that Hebrew thought and language makes allowances for things that are neither one nor the other, such as day and night. This was important in many ways, including defining the parameters of the Sabbath. The language for the other genders that were not fully male or female was akin to the language that defines twilight...not the fullness of day or night, but a beautiful space in between that is both and neither, but distinct, beautiful, and of God.

The photographer in me has seized that concept. I am twilight, I am a sunrise, I am a sunset. I am not a weed to be pruned. I am not “less than.” I am my history; I contain the shadows and the light of what I have seen. I am a physical living embodiment of that moment that allows for striking images, fleeting visions and perspectives that are not possible during the fullness of day or night. I am of God and I have beauty in this world that can only be viewed by those who choose to seek it.
James Scott P. Pignatella

From the time I was a little kid I had always felt hatred toward who I was. I felt like a stranger in my own body. My physical body was that of a girl, but I knew inside my heart and soul that I was a boy. My female anatomy was an obstacle I would have to reconstruct before I could feel complete and “at home” within my body. I have begun my journey to reconstruct my life and physical body to match my inner gender.

Ever since I was able to talk and socialize, I have always been more accepted by the boys in my neighborhood. I would always participate in the neighborhood baseball, basketball, and football games, which I was very good at. I would do anything and everything the boys did without any consideration for fear or danger. These were the happiest times of my life. I would wake up with a smile on my face every morning and be prepared for the day’s activities. During this time I was also dressing like one of the boys. No one suspected anything besides the fact that I was a tomboy. However, I knew there was something more. I was always convinced I was a boy and that I just so happened to be born without the male organs. I tried everything to fit in with the boys; I even tried going to the bathroom like a boy until I eventually gave up trying at age twelve!

Unfortunately, I had to grow up and continue my education in middle school. During this time, classmates began to call me a lesbian. I became convinced that I was a lesbian and that was the end of it. I was made fun of constantly by classmates and people who were supposed to be my friends. The hatred that I felt about being in my body was growing more and more unbearable by the day. I would not want to wake up in the morning. It had gotten so bad that I did not want to wake up at all. I wanted to kill myself so badly. I wished and prayed that someone would just take my life and release my heart from under what felt like a two ton brick. I cried myself to sleep on many occasions. Night was the only time I could let out what I was feeling. I wanted to cry all day long, but I wouldn’t show my emotions to anyone, not even my parents.

The longer I held in my feelings, the more my head would throb. I could feel the blood rushing to my head quickly. My head pounded from all the thoughts going through it. I can honestly say that if I wasn’t too scared to die, I would have killed myself and I would be freed from all the hatred and disgust that I felt toward who I was. It was at this time that my parents began sending me to therapy.

As soon as the therapist and I began talking, I was introduced to a new word: “transgendered.” For me it meant a female who has a brain of a male and believes should have been male. I knew as soon as I heard this, that I was not a lesbian, but rather, transgendered. From that time forward, I spent my life explaining that I was not a lesbian and that it was perfectly normal to like girls because I think, act, and have the brain of a male.

As I expected, people were too rigid and could not open their mind to accept me for who I really was. My parents, however, were very accepting. They agreed with the therapist right away that this was the perfect explanation for who I was. My father was able to let go of his youngest daughter very quickly. On the other hand, my mother took just a little longer to get used to having a son instead of another daughter. My mother did always wish for a boy and now tells me that I am the boy she always wanted. My parents began going to meetings for parents and friends of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people. They are now a very active part of the GLBT community and I could not be more proud of them.

I struggled through high school trying to find a place where I fit in and a place of acceptance. Some people tried to understand who I was, but to others I was still a lesbian. I was constantly explaining to my classmates that it’s not like that and that I would become a boy soon. In fact during the summer of my junior year, I received the okay from the endocrinologist to start taking testosterone and to research surgeons for breast removal. I met with Dr. Johnson, and I was so excited to have this surgery but was disappointed to hear that she would be on maternity leave until September. It was then I believed God had not wanted me to be a happy male. I began to hang my head down low again. A couple days later the surgeon’s office called.
They don’t usually do this, but when they saw my disappointment, they had moved me to the top of the waiting list and scheduled me to see Dr. Stueber who was the “in charge” doctor and did not usually see people like this. My happiness immediately reappeared. Over the summer I underwent breast removal surgery. I went back to senior year as Christopher John Garber who was on testosterone and was now without breasts!

Immediately after graduating from high school, I decided it was about time to get my female organs removed. I made an appointment as soon as summer began. Next thing I knew I was preparing for a complete hysterectomy. I feared that the procedure would hurt, but in reality there was very little pain and the recovery period was only three weeks. I was excited to start a new life in college as a legal male, but there was still one step left to complete. My mother and I went to the birth certificate office in Boston City Hall only to find out that the endocrinologist’s letter stating that I have been living completely as a male and that I underwent breast removal surgery and had received a complete hysterectomy and currently was taking testosterone, and that I fit all the requirements to legally be male, was not on his standard letterhead. My mother and I were so irritated that we went to the doctor’s office right away to get another letter. We then decided to try the birth certificate office at the Bay Side Expo Center only to find out that they would not accept the letter because it did not include the phrase, “Sex reassignment surgery has been completed.” Now we were really mad because the doctor literally wrote everything the phrase said just in a different way. My mother and I were almost in tears; I could feel my heart throbbing again. I ran outside; I felt the need to be alone. My mother refused to leave without talking to the attorney’s boss. He took us into a private room where he apologized profusely and agreed that the letter the surgeon had written for us was fine. The anxiety I was feeling had to be let out and I burst into tears. My sadness rubbed off on my mother because she began to let out a couple of tears also.

The man promised that he was planning on taking it to his lawyer the very next day to get her approval. He replied to us the next day as promised to tell us the letter had been accepted. Two letters from the endocrinologist and four employees later I had finally received the big “male” on my birth certificate. This was the first time I had actually felt closure and happiness for who I have become.

It was finally time to get into college mode. I was excited for once in my life. I was faced with another chance to live my life, but this time would be in the body of the boy I had always felt I was. It was a new beginning as a legal male. No one would know my past and I might actually be able to make some friends. In addition, I would hopefully never have to hear the same, “I am sorry, you are a girl, and I am straight” excuse that I had been getting from girls ever again. I would finally enter the dating world as a straight male and hopefully be given the reciprocated love that I had always wanted for once in my life.

The next hardship I would have to endure was whether I should tell my classmates or not. This is a huge internal struggle for me. On one hand, I feared that if I told people they would not want to have anything to do with me. On the other hand, I might make a lot of friends who I could educate about who I really am. When it comes down to it my heart, soul, and brain are torn between whether I should disclose my secret or bury it inside myself. I really do want to be liked and have a lot of friends. My heart thrives on finally being accepted and liked. At the same time I want people to know what I have gone through in my life to become a male. I am really scared to make this decision and if it doesn’t turn out the way I want it to and people do not accept me, I am fearful for my life. I cannot take anymore disappointment in my life and I am terrified for what may happen if I have to experience this amount of pain again.

Becoming male has given me a whole new perspective on life. I no longer have suicidal thoughts, and I could not be happier. I enjoy waking up each morning knowing that I will not be tortured by my classmates because of my sexuality or my gender. I am now being accepted for the man I have always felt I was! This has been a difficult journey for me, but with the support of my parents and wonderful sister I am getting through it successfully.
C.J. Garber

 

My story began a little over forty-seven years ago. I was born into a Catholic family in Albany, New York. My sense of heritage was quickly developed because of an extremely close relationship with my Irish-American maternal grandfather. Unfortunately, he passed away when I was only nine years old. He was critical in my early childhood development because of the volatile relationship that often existed at home between my parents. My grandfather seemed to be the one person that I could always rely on, who loved me without reservation, and would be there when I needed him. I loved him so very much, and wanted to be just like him when I grew up.

He was an almost legendary figure in the family, combining a strong Irish personality with an unparalleled athleticism and an unshakeable faith in God. After he passed away, I frequently felt alone. This became increasingly problematic, since even before he passed away, I had already begun to develop a sense that not everything was right with me.
At about age five I began to develop a sense of my gender, and it was completely at odds with the little boy that I had so far become. I wasn’t initially concerned, however, as I thought it was possible that every other boy felt exactly this same way. While I hadn’t told anyone, by age nine when my grandfather died, I knew differently. My third grade teacher had already told our class about Christine Jorgensen, the first well known transsexual.

At the time of my grandfather’s death I was quite sure of three things: First, my sense of gender did not match the boy that I was increasingly becoming; second, this mismatch was generally considered odd or worse by others, and seemingly was experienced by only a few; and third, I knew what it took to be a man, because a simply wonderful man, my grandfather and role model, had just died. He was considered by everyone to be a man’s man, and in the wake of his death, I never wanted anything more than to be just like him. I missed him so much. I decided that I would honor my grandfather while avoiding the embarrassment of being a transsexual, by being just like him. Unfortunately, my depth of knowledge of my grandfather was very limited because I was still a child at the time of his death, and after his death no one in the family ever spoke much of him in front of the older grandchildren in order to spare us the pain. My understanding of this man was not in any way nuanced or sophisticated, which proved to be very limiting in developing a more complete male persona during adolescence and adulthood.
My difficulty in developing a more mature male persona was unimportant in the end, as my sense of gender dysphoria increased in both intensity and frequency steadily throughout these years. I am very confident that these would have continued to overwhelm me, and prevent me from ever successfully becoming a male. While I eventually became accomplished in several things male, it never did come very easy to me because it all felt so unnatural and uncomfortable. Essentially, everything I did was learned by mimicry. This confidence is additionally reinforced by recent scientific research, which has indicated that the transsexual condition is acquired before birth and can be readily seen in the differences in certain brain structures that are associated with the endocrine system. This segues very well with the conclusion drawn by the vast majority of mental health professionals who work extensively with transsexual clients and strongly believe that it cannot be eliminated through psychotherapy.

In many ways, the part of my grandfather that I most wanted to emulate was his strong faith in God. I desperately wanted to be reunited with him someday in the afterlife and I knew I would have to be a good Catholic to get there. His faith always seemed to give him a sense of peace and unflappability that other people simply didn’t possess. I’ve always found the Catholic Church to be so filled with imagery, whether in it’s painting or sculpture, or it’s scripture. The Catholic religion itself seems to have many more icons than any other monotheistic religion. I suspect it’s probably because of its long rich history, and its large membership. Trying to grow up as a good Catholic with this increasingly developing and expanding transsexual nature along for the ride, soon became impossible because it clashed so much with the imagery. I would always listen intently to scripture at Sunday Mass, and would hear about the many images, both good and bad, i.e., the story of the sheep and the goats.

I soon came to believe that being transsexual was morally wrong because it seemed to conflict with the laws of God and nature. Another problem about being transsexual is that it seemed to be so much more than I, or anyone else for that matter, should or could ever hope to handle; and God wouldn’t do that to anyone, right? Why would God want to make someone transsexual, anyway? As I got a little older I began to equate being transsexual with being homosexual. It was just something that happened to some unfortunate people, but they could stop it, couldn’t they? Wasn’t it just a lifestyle choice? Weren’t they living an evil life? Weren’t they sinning?

The intensity of my transsexual feelings definitely got stronger and more difficult to overcome as I got older largely because of the changes brought about by adolescence and puberty. As my body began to change, it got further and further away from where I wanted it, and more importantly, where I felt it needed to be. To compound matters, the body I wanted and felt like belonged to me, was becoming increasingly visible in the girls my own age. As I got older, the changes that took place in my body were most unwelcome, which seemed to be completely contrary to the experience of the other boys my age who welcomed and even relished these changes as they occurred. I felt more and more distant from the other boys my age, even though I was becoming a man, just like them.

My feelings of being transsexual often overwhelmed me. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop or get rid of this growing sensation. My thoughts were constantly centered on it, with the implication that everything was just horribly wrong with me. These transsexual thoughts were almost an automatic thought process. Little nor nothing could trigger it. If my mind wasn’t otherwise focused or occupied, it seemed to almost naturally gravitate to these thoughts. I never had any rest from them, and peace in my life was a completely foreign notion. In many ways, this soon became almost as much a part of me as eating, drinking, sleeping, and breathing. It was me and I couldn’t control it, despite my believing that it was morally wrong and against the basic tenets of my Catholic faith, which I wanted to uphold so desperately.
I would hear about the peace of God every Saturday in CCD and Sunday in Mass, but it seemed to be completely elusive and something that I would never find. I never had even one moment’s rest from myself. My feelings about myself quickly progressed from frustration to anger, to self-hatred, to worthlessness, to my possibly being a sinner who was doomed to spend eternity in hell. My life wasn’t worth living, and I couldn’t stand myself any longer. Thoughts of suicide, which I also knew to be morally wrong, began to grow. I honestly wasn’t sure whether it was morally better to live with these feelings, or whether it would just be better to be dead. Despite all this, I still tried to love God as much as possible. I hadn’t lost all hope just yet. However, I didn’t realize how impossible this was to do, loving God and hating myself. Since I knew it was important to love God as much as I loved myself, I thought it might be okay if I simply loved him so much more.

A major event occurred in my Catholic life at about thirteen, when I went to a Saturday afternoon confession. In the confessional, a visiting priest indicated that he was determined to help the children and youth of the parish make better confessions. He would do this by taking the initiative and asking a series of questions from which we were simply to answer yes or no. While I initially thought this was odd, I went along. However, I soon became increasingly uncomfortable. The questioning seemed to get more and more strange. After a few moments, I had already been asked about whether I had ever had sex, or even had ever masturbated. I became very fearful of the direction that the questioning was apparently heading. Before I knew it, he asked me the big question, whether I was homosexual, or had any experience with any other sexually deviant practices. While he didn’t specifically mention being transsexual among those sexually deviant practices, I felt that I could not answer no to him without lying. I did not know what to do. After a minor pause, which was probably unnoticeable, I lied. When I left the confessional I felt horrible. I had lied to a priest. This was significant enough, but even more so, and what truly made it a seminal event for me was that by asking about these unnamed sexually deviant practices, the implication was very clear. I was sinning against God.

This was so very troublesome because I had always left myself a little wiggle room since I never truly knew, nor truly wanted to know, whether being transsexual itself was a sin. I now had incontrovertible proof in the form of this confession that I was sinning against God, and I strongly suspected it was a very big sin, especially because the priest seemed so earnest about the confession. I couldn’t even take comfort in the fact that I didn’t really do anything to pursue my transsexuality. I had only occasionally read some book or magazine articles to get more information to better understand it. Hopefully, I would be able to get it under control, or even better, get rid of it. However, I believed that this was a sin because of my constant thoughts about it, and not because of my actions, per se.

Once I became absolutely convinced of the seriousness of my situation, I started to become ashamed and completely despondent. Over the next few years I lost all hope for anything positive to come of my life, and I started to change for the worse. While I never lost faith in God, it became very hard to love him any longer. In reality, I became very fearful of God. The other major cost during this period was my relationship with my grandfather, which up until this period I was able to keep alive within me. Now it started to die. I knew he could not be proud of or love his grandson any longer. During this period, I really needed to talk with a professional psychologist about being transsexual, and perhaps more importantly, with a priest or other religious, because my faith had been completely shaken, and was on the verge of collapse. I became completely distant in every relationship of my life. The nature of the relationship didn’t matter.

While I really needed considerable professional help, I was trapped because my transsexual secret still seemed to be something I couldn’t share with anyone. At this time, I thought that with all the changes that were occurring to me, it would be obvious to many people around me, but in hindsight, I think I was mistaken. I’m sure that any people who noticed these changes occur simply attributed them to the volatility of passing through puberty. I suppose at this time especially, I was crying out for someone to talk to, someone to help me address these issues. Unfortunately, to be a transsexual means to be quiet, ashamed, alone, and oftentimes, completely desperate. Without a doubt, what I most needed was a priest or other religious to tell me convincingly that God loves me just the way I am.

Many years passed and making contact with anyone about being transsexual still seemed absolutely impossible. In fact, the biggest single step that I have taken on my journey of transition, which I began a few years ago after I thought I was going to kill myself, was to make that first contact. In my case, it was a call to a caring, compassionate, understanding and knowledgeable psychologist. This was only the first step. A later step, certainly of equal importance, was when my psychologist introduced me to a sister who told me convincingly of how much God loves me.

My life now has meaning. I have been reconciled to my grandfather, and know that he is in fact proud of me. Most of all, I am again a good Catholic, completely in love with God. I am most definitely a Catholic where it counts most, in my heart. I believe without a doubt and without hesitation, and completely in the Apostles Creed. While I might diverge with the theological beliefs of some, I have complete confidence that I am abiding by God’s will for me on what has been an extremely difficult and, at times, tortuous journey.

Today, I have much more mundane concerns about my faith that I’m sure are reflective of many other Catholics. Sometimes my sense of God is so alive within me that it seems to burn, and other times it seems to weaken and grow cold. I can feel so good when it is fervent, and so bad when it is weak. I wish it could be strong and steady all the time. I truly love God, and only want to do his will. While I’m not always sure exactly what that is, I still want to do it, and I pray for his guidance. I firmly believe that his will, in part, is for me to resolve my transsexual dilemma and finally find a little peace and rest in my life.
 

I remember Fr. O’Reilly standing behind his large desk, pushing himself upright on fingers splayed out on the green blotter, imposing even without the stark, black cassock. He seemed to be so very tall, as most grown men are to a five year old. “Why are you here?” he asked in a not unkind voice. “I disobeyed Mother Superior,” I mumbled, quickly averting my eyes to the floor. “Yes, but why?” he pressed. “I wanted to play with the girls.” I said. “But you are not a girl,” he said, “and you should be thankful God chose to make you a boy. It is much better to be a boy and you should do as Mother Superior says and play with the boys.” “I don’t want to play with the boys. They make fun of me and I don’t like their games,” I cried. “You must play with the other boys. That is how you will learn to be the man God wants you to be.” “No, I will not be a man!”

“It is sinful to not do what God wants us to do. God made you a boy and you must be a boy. You must put away these sinful thoughts and pray that God gives you the strength to obey his will for you. If you don’t, you will go to Hell.” He moved out from behind the desk and walked toward me, exposing the wooden paddle he often used to reinforce his commands. “I’m going to help you remember this lesson, help you understand the pain of disobeying God’s will.”
That day in 1951 I learned that being different was dangerous. That day I learned the feelings I had of being a girl were wrong and not according to God’s will for me. I learned the way I felt was unnatural, that the feelings I had not asked for nor cultivated, the feelings that were just there inside me, were evil, something to be ashamed of and thus hidden away. That day I began to construct the façade that allowed me to hide in plain sight for over fifty years.
I am a cradle Catholic, second boy of parents who converted as adults. My mother was extremely devout and saw to it that her children went to Catholic school. She believed in and loved the Catholic Church and taught her sons to love it, too. And I did love the Church. I trusted that if I did as Fr. O’Reilly had demanded I would be happy being a boy. I began to pray the rosary each night asking Mary to help me feel happy that I was born a boy. But still in my heart, I really hoped I would wake up a girl. But all the prayer did not help. I failed at being the boy I was supposed to be. The other children, boys and girls, sensed I was different, called me “sissy” and shunned me. I became a loner, a small wisp of a boy inhabiting the margins of the playground. I succeeded at the only thing I could. I made good grades.

My parents were very focused on my older brother who was born with severe asthma and had barely survived rheumatic fever and polio. My mother knew our faith had saved him. As long as I brought home good report cards and no bad notes from the sisters, they were happy with me and didn’t noticed that I was always alone. My effort to plaster over the ache in my heart worked until my brother was diagnosed with bone cancer.

Dean had just turned fourteen and I was eleven. Mother and I said the rosary together each night, asking Mary to intervene, but Dean did not get better. His leg had to be amputated, but mother urged me to continue to pray for him, and I did. My parents began to spend every available moment at the hospital with him. Being such a good, quiet child, I was allowed to stay home alone after school. One afternoon I happened to see an article in the newspaper about Christine Jorgensen, the first well-known transsexual. Doctors had turned a man into a woman. All my stifled dreams and wishes came rushing back. If God let doctors operate on a man and make him into a woman, how could it be a sin for me to want to be a girl? For the first time, despite Fr. O’Reilly’s warning of God’s wrath, I crossdressed in my mother’s clothes. And it felt good. I looked in the mirror and finally liked the person I saw. That night I prayed for God to let my brother live and to let me find a way to be a girl.

But neither prayer was answered. One day, after I had again worn my mother’s clothes, she came home and told me Dean had died. Suddenly, I knew Father had been right. I knew God had taken my brother as punishment for my grave sin. At confession the next day, the priest told me that my sin had not caused my brother’s death, but that it would lead to my damnation if I did not live as the boy God made me.

I tried. Though I had been a wimpy boy who never played sports, I decided to become one who did. I discovered that God had given me a body that responded well to exercise. I found a neighbor who was a gifted athlete in many sports, particularly football, the sport a real boy must play. I soon impressed him with my desire to learn from him.

A year later, I began high school and earned a starting position on the junior varsity football team. Suddenly, I became part of the in-crowd, a jock, and a desirable date for all the right girls. By the time I graduated, I had earned letters in football, track, and tennis, was elected to numerous leadership positions, was voted a senior favorite and won a congressional appointment to the US Air Force Academy, which was all-male at that time. There I excelled again, playing football, soccer, rugby, as well as earning academic honors. I was doing all the things a cadet was supposed to do. And I did them far better than most. I became engaged to my high school sweetheart and we planned to marry in the Cadet Chapel graduation day. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t.

All that time, I prayed for God to hear the pain in my heart, the ache that would not go away. Daily Mass and Communion did not seem to help. No matter how hard I tried, a moment’s lapse in concentration and a small voice that seemed to come from my soul would tell me I was not really happy. I assumed I had not yet made up for my sins, that I had not yet become the man God wanted me to be. I prayed that marrying my soul mate would be the answer. But again my prayers were not answered. The morning after our wedding, I awoke to the familiar ache. Two months later, as I began flight training, having achieved the dreams of so many young men, I plunged into depression and made my first attempt at suicide. After I was released from the base hospital, I went to Mass often, hoping that receiving communion would help.

But it did not. God did not seem to care that I was hurting, even as I earned my Air Force wings, a most manly accomplishment. I began to feel nothing at Mass. I had done everything a boy and man are supposed to do and still the ache was in my heart. I was becoming angry with God and the Church.

I left the Air Force and began a new career as an engineer. My wife sensed my unhappiness and hoped that a child would strengthen our marriage. I became a father and worked hard to be a good one. I think I was, though I would not let my wife have our daughter baptized in the Catholic Church. I was too angry with a church and a God that would reward my long struggle to be a man with such unhappiness in my soul.

I began to run away from life. I put in long hours at work and rapidly rose through the company ranks. I provided well for my family. Though I was falling away from the Church, I continued to pray to Mary, asking her, a woman, to intervene. A callus built up on my soul, but nothing would stop the ache. Finally, I no longer went to Church because it became like sixty minutes of institutionalized pain, each time slowly reopening the wound on my soul only to pour in religious salt.

Gradually I fell into depression, spiraling ever downward. After thirty years of marriage, I finally told my wife why I was so sad in spite of all her efforts and all my successes. She quickly withdrew from me and I descended further into depression. The engineering firm I had worked so hard to build began to struggle since I could not maintain the level of effort it had come to depend upon. I was unable to prevent our purchase by a larger firm which also foundered. I lost all the investment I had made in my company. Then I lost my job and soon after, our financial stability. A year later, after several suicide attempts by both my wife and me, our marriage ended.

I was alone and lost. I had nowhere to turn except back to the Church. I returned to Mass and prayed for healing. And once again the Church let me down. I found a priest in my small town and told him I was a transsexual and I needed to feel that God would understand I must live as a woman if I am to live at all. He blandly told me that I had been born a man, would always be a man in God’s eyes, and that I should just look between my legs and I would know that. He told me I must not act on my feelings, that altering my body or living as a woman would be sinful, that I should work harder at being a good Catholic, at attending Mass, at prayer, asking for strength to follow God’s will. The words of Fr. O’Reilly all over again. My fifty years of trying to follow them was still not enough to satisfy the Church.

A few days later, I was in the mental ward of the VA hospital in New Orleans. I felt rejected by God; unable to be the man he wanted me to be. I was in a spiritual Catch-22, a Catholic double bind: I could not continue to live as a man and my Church would condemn me to Hell if I tried to live as a woman. I wanted to die, to stop the pain, but that too was a mortal sin. It seemed no matter what I did, I would be forever in pain.

It was at that point that Sister Monica entered my life. A friend tried to persuade me for many months before I finally agreed to meet her. Somehow my heart overcame my fear of once again being hurt by a member of the Catholic clergy.

I will never forget that night when her ministry began to impact me. I wrote in my journal the next day: “Since I left you Saturday morning, I have had such a feeling of joy and hope for the future. You touched something in me, perhaps finding a small ember of faith in the Church still glowing after all those years.

With Sister Monica’s help, I began to believe that I could come back to the Church as Dawn, and subsequently I attended Mass with her at her church in New Orleans East. The pastor and the congregation accepted me and welcomed me to their fold. That day I began to feel welcome in God’s house. Coming to terms with my Catholic faith at last freed me to move forward with my transition. Instead of waking each morning regretting that God did not take me during the night, I am anxious to get up and face the day, for being alive is now a miracle instead of a curse. I like what I see in the mirror, a fifty plus woman who will at last be able to enjoy her true spirit. My friends tell me they can see the difference in my face and hear the happiness in my voice.

But being a transsexual and trying to practice my Catholic faith is not easy. The church fathers continue to parrot Fr. O’Reilly’s words. Though intellectually, I now know that the men in Rome are not the entire Church, their words can still hurt me/

I am a transsexual, yet I am many things. I am a sissy, a crybaby, the butt of jokes and fodder for the Catholic school bullies. I am a high school jock, a college football player, an intramural boxer and rugby player. I am a warrior, an Air Force Academy graduate, a Vietnam veteran, a GIB, the guy in the back of an F4 Phantom “Goose” flying behind Tom Cruise. I am a professional engineer registered in six states. I am a businessperson, executive vice president of a large engineering company that provided livelihoods for over a thousand people. I am a leader, active in my community and profession, serving in chambers of commerce, charities and professional associations. I am a teacher, instructing future teachers how to use computers and the Internet to improve their classrooms. I have a doctorate in Instructional Design and Development, which clarifies how the way we think influences the way we learn on the web.
I am a transsexual, sixty-five years old, yet just a few years into my new life as a woman. I am also a cradle Catholic, raised in the Church according to the Baltimore Catechism, missing Latin and not understanding Vatican II. I am a husband, wed in the Catholic Church to my high school sweetheart and married for almost thirty-four years. I am the father of one child, a now thirty-five year old daughter who is not a cradle Catholic because I would not let her be baptized as an infant. I am a fallen-away Catholic, though I am still desperately trying to find a spiritual home within the Church. I am all of these things at once. But for the Catholic Church, the only thing that has mattered all my life and all that still matters is that I am a transsexual.
Can I choose not to be a transsexual? Let me answer this way. Friends who are not Catholic often ask me why I want to be part of a Church that does not value me for who I am, a Church that declares me, like they do gay people, to be something disordered, an abomination. The answer is that I can be no other. From my earliest memories I have known the Catholic Church as the Church. I cannot change my faith and I cannot change my being transsexual. I have always been a Catholic and I have always been a transsexual. I can only choose to die trying to live a lie, or to live the way that makes my soul sing.

Could I have chosen not to have surgery? I feel strongly that I had to have this surgery if I was to have a body that is one with my soul. Though the Church considers this surgery “superficial”, changing nothing, for me it is life giving. At long last I see a body that truly reflects the person I am. If I am blessed to find another soul mate, that person will see me the way I want them to see me. I am, at least in the state’s eyes, for at least some of society’s legal necessities, a woman. Two not inconsequential examples: I can at last be able to go to the bathroom without breaking the law and my hormone prescriptions are covered by insurance. Still the Church considers this “choice” sinful, disfiguring the body God made for me.

I still pray that someday the Church fathers will open their hearts and truly welcome my trans brothers and sisters and me home, home to the fullness of our wonderful Catholic faith.
Dawn Elizabeth Wright

 

As the mother of a gay son and a lesbian daughter, Beth has experienced both grief and joy in her love for her children. She has also found that letting go of expectations and listening to others provides a path to mutual love and acceptance, a path she hopes her Church might follow more closely.

Being a Catholic parent of one gay and one lesbian young adult has meant for me a long journey to understand how those two important portions of my identity can both be gifts. I am Catholic to the core of my being; I love the Church, the Eucharist, the liturgy, the Marianist family to which I belong.

At the same time I love my two gay children deeply and unconditionally. I struggle with the Church’s teaching: On the one hand, the bishops have taught us in “Always Our Children,” to embrace our children and that God loves every person as a unique individual. On the other hand, gays are called “objectively disordered”; they are not welcomed or in some cases even acknowledged in our parishes.

If they are talked about, it is often in negative terms. In our family’s parish a pamphlet called “Homosexuality and Hope” published by the Catholic Medical Association was distributed in a workshop called “To Have Life and Have It Abundantly." The pamphlet states that homosexuality may be caused by one or more in a list of nine negative causes, among which are sexual abuse or rape, a controlling mother or a distant father. Not surprisingly, gays feel ignored and in exile, and as a parent of two gay children, I am silenced. This is a strange sort of doublespeak — how can a child of God be objectively disordered? Why are his parents’ voices taken away?

Although I have been smacked in the head by my powerlessness more than once in my life, like most Americans I still unthinkingly at times buy into the myth of being in control of myself, my destiny, others and the world.

When my son told my husband and me that he was gay about eight years ago, we were not surprised. We had suspected as much for several years, and were in some ways relieved. But the news brought a grief reaction: Maybe it was our fault; maybe we had been “too liberal," too accepting. We worried about the safety of our then 18-year-old son; would he make good decisions and act out of integrity with regard to his sexuality?

We also feared that his life would be much harder as a gay person than as a straight man. In the end we talked to him about our apprehensions, but we also trusted that he would be the responsible person that he had always been.

The powerlessness I felt then had to do not only with worries about his safety but also with loss. He has the caring nature that would make such a good father, and he may never be one now! There will never be a traditional marriage to a woman or a conventional nuclear family. I still sometimes mourn for what could have been while I love my son for who he is in the present moment: a creative, caring man with a talent for designing new spaces as well as for assisting others to reconcile.

Four years later, our daughter first told us she might be gay and then eventually she confirmed her sexual orientation. We had never suspected she was gay; this was a different scenario. Again there was a grief reaction and a fear that her life would not be easy because of her orientation.

It was a stretch for me to accept that we have two gay children. It wasn’t up to me, however, to decide whether or not she was gay. She is still the same daughter we always knew and loved, a very warm, talented and passionate young woman with a wonderful sense of humor who is a much loved part of our family.

At this point, if someone gave me a magic wand and told me that with a wave I could cause both of them to be straight, I wouldn’t do it because it would change an integral part of who they are, the totality of which is a gift of God to our family and our community.

What is most difficult to accept is that the Church hierarchy makes pronouncements about homosexuality without listening to the experiences of gays and their families. My hope is that there will at some point be forums where we are asked to share what we have lived. As Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., puts it in  Kitchen Table Wisdom, “Listening is the oldest and perhaps the most powerful tool of healing. It is often through the quality of our listening and not the wisdom of our words that we are able to effect the most profound changes in the people around us...Listening creates a holy silence.”

So on this day it is clear to me that I am not in as much control of myself, my destiny, and others, much less the world as I would often like to be. I am working to accept the grief when it comes to me, to love and enjoy my two gay children for who they are and to do what I can in asking the Church hierarchy to listen to my experiences. When friends or co-workers listen to my story with empathy, mentally entering into what I’m feeling, it is one of the greatest gifts they can give me.

Letting go of expectations, listening to each other’s stories and accepting one another for who we are ... isn’t this all we can expect of one another?
Beth Garascia
 
  A woman whose fear has kept her away from a community where she could acknowledge her own goodness finds support , friendship, and affirmation when she reaches out to Deb. Although she never made it to the potluck, she found a friend who loved and respected her for who she was.

My husband and I are part of the Diocesan Catholic Ministry with Gay and Lesbian Persons monthly potluck host team, and we are members of the Parent Support Group team as well. I sent our bishop a note, along with this tribute to a friend, saying I know he hears our group should not be seen or heard, but by being “out”’ we can help bring peace to those who need us. In answering me, he reminded me, that although she had not made it to a potluck supper, she had indeed been "welcomed to the great banquet."

My friend died this week. I had not known her long, but her life touched mine, and I will miss her. She reached out to me in September, beginning the phone conversation in the same way a few others had: “What do you people do at those potlucks, and who comes?” I never know how the conversation will go after that ... but in her case, it was the beginning of a friendship.
My friend was a retired Catholic school teacher with chronic health problems. I had gone to school with her younger sister. She had taught my younger brother. We connected quickly. She worried at first that I would recognize her name, and then later appreciated the fact that we had so much in common.

She was finally coming to terms with the fact that she was lesbian. She told me she had kept the bulletin announcement with my name and phone number in it for four months before she got the courage to call. She told me on the first call that she had not shared with anyone her "secret." That she had not spoken it aloud, until she called me.

We visited on the phone for an hour the first call, then again about two weeks later for another hour. She came out to one of her sisters between calls, and was so grateful that her sister had been kind and loving and told her this was not a big issue and that she should have shared earlier ... and that she was loved.

In the beginning, I invited her to our monthly ministry potluck. She told me she was afraid that coming out to a crowd was more than she could deal with. I told her she would be fine, as the potluck includes family and friends, supportive parishioners. No one would make any assumptions from her being there. She said she would try, but lost her courage.
The next few months her health issues were worse, and it was not until February that we got together for lunch and a three hour visit. She shared with me her story, and her fear that Who She Was would take her straight to hell. This was not a woman who had been away from church. She was a religious order auxiliary, and had a committed prayer life and strong faith. She was concerned because a few months before we met, she felt love for the first time, and it was for another woman. Nothing had happened, she knew her love interest had not felt the same way, nothing had happened, and yet she feared for her soul.

I spent a lot of the time we had together reminding her that she was as God made her, that she was loved, and that the Father cared for her. We spoke every few weeks, sometimes just for a quick reminder that it was "potluck" week, sometimes for more "soul sharing" conversations. She never made it to a potluck supper; her health and her wariness just didn’t allow it. But she never gave up, telling me each time, "I will try; I really want to come."

I left a message for her on Tuesday that the potluck was a week late because of Easter. She didn’t call back, but that was not uncommon when her health was at its worst. I found her obituary on Sunday and hoped that she died in peace, knowing the Father loves her. He does; I just hope she felt it.
Deb Word

A daughter comes out in college and starts her mother and father on a path of understanding.
Twelve years ago my daughter Gretchen invited me to come to Purdue University for dinner to celebrate my birthday. She was taking summer classes and working at Whirlpool so she remained on campus. The next semester she would begin her senior year.

Following dinner she gave me my gift, a book titled Straight Parents; Gay Children. I couldn’t believe my eyes. After an uncomfortable period of silence, I asked her if she were trying to tell me something. As she nodded, I asked her if she were sure to which she responded, “Mom, are you sure you’re heterosexual?” Since I had never questioned my sexuality, I was certain she had and now understood what had been puzzling her for some time.

I hugged her, told her that I loved her and it didn’t change my feelin
gs for her. The only thing different was I had more information about her now. She asked me to prepare her dad because she wanted to talk to him soon. She wanted to talk to her brothers individually.

When our children “come out of the closet,” we as parents go in. For several years I remained silent on the subject but did read a number of books to try to understand and accept. I was dealing with the death of a dream I had of my daughter marrying some day.
Late in October seven years ago, my husband and I traveled to Boulder Creek, California to have an early Christmas visit with our daughter, since she would not have enough vacation days at her place of employment to be able to come home. I selected a simple cross with Chanel set diamonds on a gold chain for Gretchen’s gift. She said she really appreciated the thought and the gift but that she could not accept the cross because it was not about who she was any more. My eyes filled with tears; I could hardly speak. I could see the disappointment in my husband’s eyes. Feeling rejected by our church, Gretchen felt her only recourse was to leave the church.
This was the beginning of a journey by my husband and me to learn as much as we could about homosexuality. My husband saw an announcement in the newspaper of a meeting being held where clergy from local churches were invited to speak on their particular denomination’s vision of gays in their church. During the Q&A period of the meeting, my husband asked, “When you don’t use the pulpit to preach against homophobia, aren’t you contributing to it?”
Those attending immediately applauded bringing my husband to tears. The panel of clergy agreed that they were remiss and, yes maybe they were part of the problem.

Like many other conscientious and concerned Catholics, we feel called to be voices that question and challenge.

When members of faith communities gather and sing the song, “All Are Welcome,” do we really mean that? Does the church not understand the need to have a ministry that includes all people regardless of their sexual orientation? My husband and I pray and work towards the day when all are welcomed as full and equal members in the sacramental, spiritual and social life of our Church and local communities.
Rita Wagner