Caitlyn Jenner and the Case for "Siya"

The internet is exhausting these days, isn’t it? All of these extreme controversies and passionate tirades sandwiched between the adorable pictures of your former coworker’s niece, you cousin’s paleo lunch creation, and some hilarious cat memes. 

The other day, I got sucked into one of those debates in the comment section of a Facebook post. You know, the kind where you find yourself arguing with strangers, and/or people you haven’t seen since that one hairstyle you’re now embarrassed about. And you end up hating yourself afterwards, because that's what you did instead of what you meant to do, which was be a responsible, productive human being for the day. 

It was good, though! It was a conversation about Caitlyn Jenner. Even though I had been a quiet observer about the issue until that point, that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about it, and trying to process the story along with everyone else. So the time had finally come for me to start articulating how I feel about h…

H….?

As I started writing about h… Jenner… I found myself pausing at several H’s, having minor panic attacks trying to decide which gender-specific pronoun to use. Him? Her? H-h-h-h…

Yes, I know which one I am supposed to use for the sake of political correctness and not sounding ignorant. But I also know the one I want to use—the one my gut tells me is more correct—and it is not the same one. 

Then, there’s my experience working in the professional news industry where I learned how much it really doesn’t matter which one you use. Someone is going to get offended, and tell you in a very condescending way that you’re doing it wrong. That’s often when the conversation derails, becoming a conflict about the words we use rather than whatever story it was that happened to have a transgender or transexual person in it.     

But, trust me, this is not the first time the use of gender-specific pronouns has caused minor delays in my conversations.

Ask my mom.

"Siya"  

My mother is from the Philippines—a far off, tropical island country with rice patties, beaches, volcanos and a national language that contains zero gender-specific pronouns. They just don’t exist in Tagalog the same way they do in English. There is no “he” or “she”. Everyone is “siya” (pronounced "sha"). That’s why, even after nearly 40 years of speaking English in the States, sometimes my mom still gets confused, and refers to me as “he” or “him”, and I'm like, "Mom, sheeeee! I'm a girl!" 

And she’s all, “Oh! Yeah, sorry! Hahaha!” 

Okay, I know that is a completely different situation, but there’s a point here. The words we use are subjective. They’re symbols. We make them up, and assign them meaning in effort to describe reality to each other, and make life a shared experience.

For example, the word gay is a symbol that used to mean happy, right? Then it became slang for homosexual, and now it’s an official term. A rainbow meant God wouldn't flood the earth anymore, and Love Wins was a phrase more associated with Rob Bell than SCOTUS. But now, these symbols have other meanings assigned to them as well. And they only work—communication is only possible—if the speaker and the listener are on the same page about what the symbols mean.

The Emperor is Naked

So now, our popular culture wants to change the meaning of the words man, woman, he, she, him and her. Well… Okay, then. Let’s just get on same page about our terms, so we can start communicating again. 

But just so you know, changing the words we use to describe reality will not actually change the objective Truth we’re attempting to describe in this situation. Whatever the word woman means doesn't change the fact that there is a fundamental difference between my organic female anatomy and biology, and Caitlyn's "female" anatomy and biology. 

Yes. This successful male Olympian who regained the spotlight on a reality TV show about a privileged American family decided he wanted to become his true self by becoming a herself. So he started the synthetic hormones, got chest implants to resemble mammaries, and (I don’t know, but I’m guessing) had his genitals inverted into the shape of a vagina? Oh, and by the way, also has great stylists and make-up artists that make him look like a retired super model fighting the cruel hands of time.

Fascinating! The things science can accomplish these days, no? I’m curious... Were they able to fit him with a fully functional uterus and ovaries as well? Does he release an egg each month, and have two X chromosomes in every strand of DNA in his body? Could we chat over a glass of wine, and maybe bond in reminiscing about our first periods?

Sometimes the whole thing makes me feel like that little kid standing in the crowd, watching that naked Emperor ride down the street, hearing everyone comment on how fine the Emperor’s new clothes are. I just have to tell you; I don’t see what you’re seeing. Maybe I am the one missing something, but I really think it’s the Emperor that’s missing something.

Photo courtesy whatsthepont.com.

Does anyone else see this? How are we not all seeing this?

We’re losing ourselves in agreeing that Bruce has found himself as a woman.

If we're still hoping, at all, that the way we understand and describe reality is actually in line with the reality our Creator designed for us, then I think we're getting off track by requiring that everyone call transgender and transexual individuals by the sex they believe they are, rather than the sex that observable evidence proves they are. 

I'd rather just take a cue from the Filipinos and do away with gender-specific pronouns all together. That way, I wouldn’t feel obligated to call someone a she when the person fathered children. Hello?! I’d rather just say siya with a sense of integrity, and move on with my life having fewer conversations derailed by gender pronoun chaos.

Truth Is Not A Dodo Bird

For those of us who find the Theology of the Body breath-taking—and ultimately true—and who may be concerned that wisdom is threatening to become extinct in all of this...  Fear not. Truth is not a dodo bird. Sure, it’s current habitat may be threatened, but real Truth learns to thrive in any condition. Sometimes it even thrives better in the dark.

We know that the reality of our human sexuality is written in the very structure of our beings. It is, literally, how life continues to move forward. Surgery and semantics cannot even touch it. Not really.  

So when we are compelled to speak about it, even if we are considered archaic and closed-minded, may our voices be neither shaky nor shouting. May we continue to learn what it means to speak—live—the Truth in Love, remembering that God is both of these things, and we can’t have one without the other. After all, most of the people we know who are fiercely defending Jenner are actually just trying to be compassionate, which is something that God is. I do believe their compassion is at the misguided expense of sound reason, but no one is better off for having sound reason at the expense of compassion. 

Of Reptiles and Men

Our 8-month-old son is in that constant babbling stage of learning to talk. For the past several days, he’s been fixated on saying “butt” over and over again. He has no idea what it means, of course, he just loves making the sound. This phase has been particularly interesting during the silent pauses of Sunday Mass. Sometimes, we help him out with some conversational context, just for fun.

Someday, he’ll learn the meanings assigned to that sound, and why mommy and daddy thought it was so funny at the time. He’ll probably think it’s funny too! He’ll also learn the meaning of other sounds, and maybe he’ll say, “Mommy! I’m a dinosaur!” And I’ll say, “Oh yeah? Well, I’m a bigger dinosaur!” And I’ll roar at him, and chase him around the house as he screams. 

At some point, I’ll probably notice he’s doing the pee pee dance. So I’ll take him to the potty, and teach him to aim his little male organ at the toilet water, because in reality, he’s a human boy. We’ll teach him that’s what he is. And just maybe, I’ll pray to God that he doesn’t someday get very confused, and end-up looking like this guy who, by the way, is also not a real reptile (unless we want to change the meaning of the word “reptile” as well. Just let me know). 

Reptile Man. Photo courtesy Pinterest.com.

We will eventually tell our son that we don’t create reality; we just try our best to understand it, interpret it, and participate in it. That’s what words and symbols are for. And sometimes the meaning of our symbols change, but Truth does not. That’s because God is Truth’s Author and Creator. God even created us, and teaches us who we are, and I hope you spend your life seeking Siya. 

The Church, The Pedophiles, and the Filipino Party Tree

When I stepped onto the treadmill Monday morning the guy jogging next to me made some small talk, like people do whilst on treadmills.  “How was your weekend?” He asked.    

    

“Really good, actually!” I said.  “A friend of mine was ordained a Roman Catholic Priest up in Atlanta, so I went up and celebrated with him and some of my other friends.  It was really awesome.”

“Oh that’s cool!”

“Yeah!”  

“Did you tell him to stay away from little boys?”  

Stunned and deadpan.  “No.  I didn’t.”

...

I’ve recently been reading some CNN.com articles in a convenient effort to keep up with current events (Definitely open to other suggestions).  The Vatican has been making several appearances lately, what with Obama’s healthcare mandates, the leaky butler, and the renegade nuns (oxymoron) going back and forth with the Pope.  CNN’s rhetorically slanted coverage of these issues is frustrating enough, but then, for some reason I am always compelled to read the responses at the end.  Every single time, no matter what the issue is that’s being reported about the Catholic Church, more than one person makes a comment bringing it back to the pedophile priest scandals, and more than one other person makes a comment along the lines of, “Give it up, already...  The Catholic Church isn’t working anymore...  Nobody trusts the Vatican...  It’s time to hang it up...”  And my personal favorite of these comments: “You’ve had your time.  We call it ‘the Dark Ages’.” 

...

One particularly hot, summer day back in the 80’s, when I was about 5 years old, my Grandmother took me to this Filipino party somewhere out in the country.  Sometime after she had me stand on top of a table and sing a Whitney Houston song for everyone on the Karaoke machine, as per the usual, I went outside to find some other children to play with.  Usually at these Filipino parties there would be a bunch of children running around together somewhere, but here I didn’t see them right away.  (Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a story about a pedophile.  It’s going to be about a tree).  Then, several yards away, I saw a couple of little kids run off and disappear into the leaves of this giant tree in the middle of a field.  (See?  I told you.)  I don’t know what kind of tree it was, maybe an oak, or a maple... I wasn’t really aware of these kinds of details at the age of 5, but it was huge, and dense, and it had branches all the way down to the ground.  After I saw a couple more children run across the field and disappear into the tree, I decided to head towards it and check the tree out for myself.

    

The closer I got to the tree, the bigger it seemed to become.  As I approached, the tree appeared animated and alive with voices and laughter; leaves rustling around in random places all over.  I was timid and a bit apprehensive, but entirely drawn and curious.  So I went in.     

When I crossed the threshold of the outer leafy boundary, it was like stepping through a doorway to a different world.  The temperature dropped significantly in the coolness of its shade.  Rays of sparkling light were pouring in through the leaves, twinkling with their rustling movements.  Everywhere I looked, up and around, there were dozens and dozens of other children playing happily on the branches.  It was the kind of climbing tree that children live for.  These branches were so strong, sturdy and close together that we could climb very high and still feel very safe.  There was a boy who was obviously “it”, trying to tag some other children, so I joined right in with a loud squeal. He came after me as I climbed away from him like a little monkey.  We all played for hours in that tree, climbing up and down and around, talking, exploring, having our own little party while the grown-ups did whatever it is that grown-ups do when they get together...  Who cares?      

Now here is where I bring up webworms.  I don’t know about other parts of the U.S., but anyone who’s lived in the Midwest has seen the work of these nasty little things.  They live on the outer branches of trees, and you know they’re present when it looks like some dirty, flavorless cotton candy has attacked a tree branch and they both died in the battle.  Dirty, dead cotton candy on a dead tree branch.  Got it?  It’s actually really gross.  Depending on how many branches are affected, an infestation can make your trees look hideous.    

    

Now, let’s say for a moment that the Filipino party tree had webworms too.  Even though it didn’t in real life, it is not a far stretch of the imagination.  After all, it’s a great tree, which makes it very vulnerable to bugs that eat yummy trees.  Let’s even say that it had so many webworms, it appeared to be dying.  Looking at it from a distance, I would have seen the webworm damage and devastation caused to some of the more visible parts of the branches, and I might have figured the tree itself was sick and in the early stages of decay.  But here is the point: The little moth larvae we call webworms are not the tree itself.  They are the worms; the tree is still the tree.  And it is not going anywhere.  Webworms can’t kill a tree this strong.      

    

Standing outside of the Church and looking at her from a distance, especially with the slanted voices of misinformed skeptics explaining the circumstances in our ears, there is reason to be alarmed and somewhat grossed-out.  I have spent most of my life seeing it from this angle, so I understand.  But now, I have disappeared into the leaves with the other children who play in its expansive shade mixed with sparkling light.  I am currently sitting on a branch with my back resting against its massive trunk.  From this angle, it is not at all what you would have expected from the outside.  The closer we get to the center—which is the real presence of Jesus Christ himself—and the more time we spend observing the world from there, the more we are able to distinguish the Tree itself from the worms and know that they are not one in the same.  As we climb the branches, we learn to trust the strength of the real thing, and stay clear of the flavorless cotton candy-looking stuff.  We observe with curiosity and wonder the markings that tell the story of the Tree’s growth throughout her long history of becoming such a Tree.  Here, wind knocked off a branch.  There, lightening must have struck the side of the trunk many years ago.  Look, an owl must have lived in this hole at some point, or a family of squirrels.  “Tag!  You’re it!”  We grow to love the Tree itself and desire that she be free from the worms that plague her.  There is damage done, and some branches have been ruined, which is a grievous loss.  But it’s not the end of the Tree.  She is very much alive and well.  It is simply a time that requires intense pruning, which, as anyone who knows anything about trees can tell you, will only make her living branches stronger in time.      

    

It’s strange for the children to sometimes hear people observing from the outside refer to their Tree as “That dying webworm tree.”  We know that doesn’t even make sense.  These are only the voices of ones who have no idea just how deep these roots go, how much they have survived already, and the strength of the branches that hold the children up and keep them from being afraid.  The webworms will be done away with in time.  No doubt, more may come, and they will go as well.  But the Tree will remain right where she is, with children playing in her branches until the day has ended and the children are called to go home.  

“...and behold, I am with you always, to the close of the age.”  Matthew 28:20

Beautifully Tacky

I had a moment during Mass yesterday when I was staring up at the high, arched ceiling of the ornate sanctuary trying to decide if I thought it beautiful or tacky (often a fine line) and having the profound and amusing thought/prayer of, "What am I doing in a Catholic Church? ...in Columbus, Georgia? I did not see this coming."

The priest of this particular church is very old and very mumbly. I can understand him about as much as if he were actually performing the mass in Latin. It's a long story, though, of how I came to be kneeling in this old church, with its profound lyrics set to stodgy music, watching the indecipherable Father administer this sacred ritual that is practiced every single day, in churches all over the world, for thousands of years now, essentially the same way every time. I am watching and listening. Open.

I don't know where to start this story, except to say that I am not Catholic. And I have never wanted to be Catholic, not at all. It's safe to say I had a disdain towards it. Still, there I was, by my own free will, looking up at the 103-year-old repainted ceiling and having such a loving exchange with God about how much he knows that I do not, even to the point of knowing what this particular priest was saying, how many other priests were saying the very same thing at that moment, or at other moments, inviting Him to be present in such a tangible way.

I've put off trying to tell this story because it seems exhausting to tell it consecutively. So instead, I've decided not to. It'll likely come out in random order... starting with the present. My husband and I moved to Columbus, Georgia one month ago after being separated for 8 months while he was in military training. He is now a US Army Ranger stationed at Ft. Benning, and I am now a Junior at Columbus State University. He's 30, and I will be in November. We're both a little old for what we're doing, but that is what happens when everything falls apart and you start from scratch in many ways. It is still us, though, married for 8 years now, and for 5 of those years our main source of income was his job as a non-denominiational, Protestant Youth Pastor in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Military was nowhere on our radar for most of our marriage, except in his dreams and my nightmares. I was many things during his time as a youth pastor: a college student, a barista, a Teacher Assistant at a welfare elementary school, a wedding videographer, an editor for TV commercials, an indie film blah blah blah... like I said, many things.

The last few years of our lives have been pivotal, and we are still pivoting in many ways. Most people who know us well know that Josh was a Youth Pastor and now he's an Army Ranger, but there was a time in between that is a little obscure to most, though they know it had something to do with Filmmaking. Perhaps that will be cleared-up here, the more I write. As I find the courage to write it...

Eventually, I decided that the ceiling in the sanctuary was definitely tacky. I figured it was probably prettier before they repainted it, more historic looking. But then I realized that it doesn't matter. What was painted one way once can be repainted again.

I've been to enough masses now to know some of what the priest was saying, even though I couldn't understand his words. When he stretched his arms towards us in a certain way and mumbled at a certain length, I knew that meant, "The peace of God be with you always." So I returned the gesture in unity with everyone present, "...and also with you."