I live a blessed and privileged life.  I interact daily with people from all over the world who respect the journey on which I have embarked and treat me accordingly.  I am rewarded for the authentic way in which I live my life.  I have a wonderful church, deep friendships, and a large audience interested in what I have to say about gender equity and religious tolerance.  My life is so blessed that I forget how difficult it is for so many other transgender people.

Dr. Rachel Levine’s Senate hearing this past week was a lesson in fear mongering.  Rand Paul’s line of questioning was infuriating.  He kept saying, “Let the record show that the candidate refuses to answer my question.”  He was referring to his question that equated genital mutilation, a horrible practice condemned by the United Nations, with gender confirmation surgery.  Rand Paul is a physician.  He knew exactly what he was saying.  He knows the difference between genital mutilation and gender confirmation surgery.  Dr. Levine answered his horribly inappropriate question with grace and mercy, and she answered it accurately.  She said, “Transgender medicine is a complex and nuanced field” composed of “robust research” and standards of care.  She offered to come to his office and talk about it.  But Paul had no interest in a serious conversation about gender dysphoria.  He just wanted to drive fear into the minds of his constituents.  What he did was unconscionable.

I am frequently the target of that kind of hateful behavior, but rarely to my face.  Most often it is in written form, usually comments made online about speeches I have given.  There are thousands of pejorative comments out there, but I don’t have to read any of them.  Dr. Levine did not have that privilege. She had to listen to Rand Paul’s offensive line of questioning and respond with grace.  Dr. Levine was very dignified.  It was obvious that if there was a person in the room of whom we should be afraid, it was Rand Paul.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Capitol, we saw similar behavior from two female members of Congress, as they stirred up hate and fear in opposition to the Equality Act, passed later that day along partisan lines.  One of those members of Congress is from my state, Lauren Boebert, who serves a district on the western slope of Colorado.  I live in Boulder County, one of the most liberal counties in the nation.  Weld County, to our east, is a bastion of conservatism.  Some in Weld County have even suggested that they should secede from Colorado to become a part of Wyoming, which they border to the north.  Colorado is a microcosm of our nation, very divided.

I do not spend much time in Weld County, just as I do not spend much time in the commonwealth Rand Paul represents, Kentucky.  I lived in Kentucky through my high school and college years.  After I transitioned, I was planning to attend one of my high school reunions.  Though I had been voted most likely to succeed in my class, I was informed that if I attended, there might be trouble.  I did not attend the reunion, though I did visit with my cousins and a few other good friends from my hometown who have been staunch supporters of mine.  For the most part, however, I avoid Kentucky.

My privileged life allows me to avoid the haters, or at least direct contact with them.  It’s enough to make me think things are truly getting better.  Then I see Rand Paul, and Representatives Greene and Boebert, and I am reminded just how far we have to go.  We desperately need the Equality Act to pass the Senate and be signed into law. There is absolutely nothing about being transgender that should strike fear into any rational person.  The Bible has nothing to say about it, and no, your argument based on one Genesis passage is not convincing.  It does not take much of a theologian to dismantle it. Not one of us has ever been accused, arrested, or convicted of being in a restroom for nefarious purposes.  On the other hand, you might consider the fact that over one 20 year period, the three largest insurance companies representing Protestant churches in America paid out over 7,000 claims for clergy sexual abuse.

Fear mongering is deplorable.  I knew someone who worked for Dr. Levine when she directed a program in adolescent medicine in Pennsylvania.  This person and her husband spoke of Dr. Levine in very pejorative terms.  When Dr. Levine was nominated for her position, it took me a while to realize she was the same physician about whom my acquaintances had spoken.  The person I saw being interviewed in the Senate was nothing like what I had been told by these evangelical leaders, who described her as being a threat to her young patients.

The aggravating truth is that these are good people for whom I have a lot of respect.  They have done good work throughout their lives, and pre-transition, they loved me well.  I have not heard from them since I transitioned.  We all have our blind spots, but blind spots can be dangerous when they lead to fear mongering.  I hope my acquaintances have educated themselves about transgender people.  I hope they now understand that we are good people who have struggled mightily to live authentically.  We are a threat to no one.

I am grateful for Rachel Levine’s grace and composure under pressure.  I do my best when I am in similar circumstances.  Those of us who are able to do so have little choice but to boldly speak the truth and show the world who we are.  I know of no other way to assure others that they have nothing to fear.

When I am reading a book, I make notes in the back – by page number.  Most of what I write are words of the author that I want to remember, but I also write my own thoughts and reactions about what I have read.  Should some soul pick up the book after I’m gone, they’ll have no idea what I’m talking about, because I write my thoughts in code that makes sense only to me.  For instance, I might write “E. Becker” and a page number, which would mean the author’s words made me think of Ernest Becker and his book, The Denial of Death. The notes I write make their way into conversations.

When I am puzzling over a concept, I have to talk about it; to bounce it off someone who understands the basic nature of the notion about which I am puzzling. My favorite people with whom to bounce around intellectual ideas are my son, Jonathan, my friends David and Michael, and a handful of colleagues.  When I am puzzling about life itself, I tend to talk with Cathy or my daughters or close female friends who are verbal processors.

I also process difficult information out loud.  If I have a medical symptom that frightens me, I have to talk it out with a friend.  That worked pretty well when my close friends were physicians.  It doesn’t work so well nowadays.  I feel sorry for Cathy and my other close female friends.  They bear the brunt of my health obsessions and the need to talk about them – endlessly.

I am reaching that age in which a person starts thinking about their mortality.  I have good genes.  My parents both lived well into their 90s, but that doesn’t stop me from fretting about my own health.  Some of it is unique to my circumstances.  I lived for six decades before I transitioned.  It will not be possible for me to spend half of my life as a woman.  I may not even spend a third of my life as a female.  I want to stay healthy, because I am enjoying life as a woman.  I am so much happier now.  Hence the desire to stretch out this part of my life as long as possible.

Which brings me back to Ernest Becker’s book, The Denial of Death.  Game 6 of the 1986 World Series was not going well.  If the Red Sox won, they would win the World Series.  It was the bottom of the 10th inning with two outs, and my beloved New York Mets were behind 5 to 3.  Confident it was over, I headed upstairs to my bedroom, where I opened Becker’s book to the page where I had stopped reading the day before.  I had just started on a section in which he wrote about Freud’s inability to deal with death when Cathy let out a squeal from downstairs.  The Mets had miraculously tied the game.  We watched together as Mookie Wilson hit the single that dribbled through Bill Buckner’s legs and secured the Mets win, 6-5.  The Mets came from behind the next night to win the seventh game and the Series.  That was almost 35 years ago.  It was the last World Series won by the Mets.

I have never forgotten what book I was reading that night, after I had given up on any hope of the Mets winning game six.  It seemed fitting to read about death. Our culture does all it can to deny the reality of death, because death is our greatest fear. If we dare to love another, we will eventually lose the one we love, either through their death or our own. And of course, we will all eventually lose ourselves before we’ve ever really found ourselves.  In light of that truth, no wonder we try to deny the reality of aging and death.

As I get older, my physical power diminishes.  I can no longer escape the fact that I cannot run or bike or hike as fast as I once did.  These bodies we inhabit wear out. On the other hand, I am discovering that not everything wears out.

Wisdom does not wear out.  At least to this point in my life, I would say that wisdom only increases with age.  Don’t get me wrong.  I know plenty of people who have not grown in wisdom as they have aged.  They stopped growing a long time ago.  Many people shut down their curiosity about life.  They settle into their ways and await the inevitable. But if you keep growing through every stage of life, wisdom accumulates. You see life through the long lens.  You learn to look deep within for your sense of self-worth, instead of seeking it from the outside.  You find you are more interested in being in relationship than being right. You realize we overestimate what we can accomplish in one year, but underestimate what we can accomplish in twenty.  And you learn that when a call comes, you decline that call at your own peril.

I frequently return to the notes I write in the back of a book, both the thoughts of the author and my own reflections. One of the notes I wrote the other day in the back of Parker Palmer’s little book, Let Your Life Speak, were these words: “The movements that transform the world emerge from people who decide to care for their authentic selfhood.”  Below it is another quote: “One dwells with God by being faithful to one’s nature.”  I like reading those whose wisdom exceeds my own.  They are good guides on this journey through time.

Caring for my authentic selfhood, while tolerating my stubborn predispositions, is an ongoing practice in grace and wisdom.  We are always becoming, and if we persevere, our wisdom is always increasing.

When you’ve met one transgender person, you’ve met exactly one transgender person.  None of us can speak for anyone but ourselves.  It is important to mention that, because I have a number of transgender brothers and sisters who talk about being “dead named.” What they are referring to is when someone calls them by their birth name. It is not language I choose to use.

A couple of years ago a lead pastor of a large church was planning to preach about what God thinks about gender dysphoria.  When he wrote to ask if I would speak with him, he wrote the letter to Paul.  I do not open mail written to Paul.  Since his return address was on the letter, I wrote back and said if he wanted to address me by my legal name, I would open his letter.  He did write back using my legal name, but I still chose not to speak with him. He had already reached his conclusions.

It was the first time in about five years someone had addressed me as Paul. I did not feel I had been dead named. I just felt I had been treated disrespectfully. The truth is that I am comfortable talking about my life as Paul.  It is not my “dead name.”  It is the name by which I was known for exactly 90 percent of my life.  It is the name my parents gave me when I was born, the name my wife called me for 40 years, the name by which all of my friends knew me.  Paul was my name.  The person who was Paul is still me.  I am that person.

Paul is no longer the name that best defines me.  That name is Paula.  And oh my, what a difference that one little letter makes.  I am comfortable as Paula.  Paula is who I am.  Paula is me.  But I am also Paul.  Paul lives within me and informs my life on a daily basis.  Sometimes I am not particularly crazy about how Paul informs my life, like when I am feeling entitled and bring my privilege with me.  But most of the time I am comfortable with the wisdom Paul brings into my life.  I am grateful for what he knew and imparted to me.

Integrating Paul into Paula is one of the most difficult parts of my transgender journey.  There is a chapter in my memoir entitled Dying Before Dying.  It defines my dilemma.  To be sure, a part of me has died.  But that part also lives on, not just in my memories, but in my heart and head and soul and yes, even my body. If someone calls me Paul, it would be wrong to say I was “dead named.”  If it’s done respectfully, or forgetfully, I usually ignore it, at least the first time.

It does not help to complicate my journey by denying the reality of my life as Paul.  When I first transitioned I said to Jonathan, “I’m the same person I have always been.”  He strongly disagreed: “No, you most certainly are not!”  My daughters had seen the bodily and personality changes take place slowly.  Jonathan only saw me every few months, and for him, the differences were jarring.

Jonathan was right. I am a fundamentally different person. Testosterone is a powerful substance that affects every part of your being. When it is gone, you experience life differently. I would describe it as seeing life more holistically.  For me, testosterone made me feel like I was a hammer and the whole world was a nail. It narrowed my focus.  I never experienced testosterone as a positive substance.  From the day of its arrival until the day of its departure, it was a problem.

Estrogen is the opposite.  From the day of its arrival, I experienced it as a blessing, a wonderful substance that makes me feel the way I always should have felt.  Some of the changes in me are because of the loss of testosterone and the addition of estrogen. Some are from the different experience a woman has on earth, as compared to the experience of a man. As a woman, it doesn’t take long for you to begin to see yourself as a second-class citizen.

All of these things make the integration of Paul into Paula difficult. However, of one thing I am certain. Integration will never happen if I think of Paul as my dead name. It is already difficult enough to integrate the two halves of my life without exacerbating the problem by deciding that I was living with a dead name for all those decades.

In the Book of Exodus, God told Moses that his name was Yahweh.  It is a marvelous thing to be given a name, to tell people your name, and to have people call you by your name. Names are who we are. We turn around when our name is called. We step to the front of the line with satisfaction when our name is called while waiting for a table at a busy restaurant. We react with anxiety when it is called in a doctor’s waiting room.

Paula is my name. Paul exists within Paula.  Of that, I am certain.  As for the rest, I’ll just have to ask Yahweh. I imagine integrating God, Jesus and Spirit is no easy task either.

And so it goes.