An Orthodox LDS Member's Guide to Being a [Completely Unradical] LGBT Ally

One of the hardest things about moving across the country to Illinois has been being away from a trusted network of friends. In-person interactions always feel so much more meaningful to me than far-flung correspondence. Losing those comfortable interactions with old friends has made me realize how essential I find having good strong relationships and friendships. I, like most LGBT people, need allies willing to help me. This is especially true for me as I try and navigate being transgender as an active Mormon.

Often members of my various congregations have had no idea how to interact with, communicate with, or help me as an LGBT member of the Church. I've realized that a big part of the problem is that while there are a lot of great resources available online discussing what it means to be an ally to the LGBT community, Mormons rarely engage with these sources. I know that LDS members often fear that being an “ally” will conflict with their own religious beliefs. 

For LDS members, a single question hangs over this whole topic: Is it possible to be a good LDS member and still be an LGBT ally?

Because of this confusion, I think a lot of LDS members feel like they are making up how to interact with and help LGBT individuals. Many of these LDS allies are trying to balance church commitments and religious beliefs with biological and social understanding of LGBT issues. This can often lead to some confusing, or frustrating interactions. This confusion makes me feel even more isolated and alone.

At the same time, I’ve had so many wonderful people ask how they can help in a meaningful way. Thus, I’ve put together a few ideas. Let’s look at what’s not helpful first.

• The "Let me know how I can help! Okay, bye!" ally: This is in my experience the most common way LDS members try to be an ally. These members of the Church are good, well-intentioned people, but are very uncomfortable about discussing or talking about any kind of LGBT experience. They will happily bake you a plate of cookies or mow your lawn when you are sick, but they just don't know how to engage with a topic that makes them uncomfortable. So they would rather avoid and ignore my experience and how it affects my day-to-day existence. I dearly love these people, but at the same time I can't help feeling like a huge portion of myself is being shoved under the rug. I am transgender. I get that this is uncomfortable for some people. It’s not an experience that most people easily relate with. But, my experiences grappling with being transgender in a Mormon community are a massive part of who I am. If you want to know me, these questions are impossible to ignore.

• The "You're so righteous! Everyone should be like you!" ally - These LDS members think being an ally means cheering for LGBT Mormons as long as they ‘keep the faith.’ I see this kind of ally everytime someone who doesn't even really know me misuses small snippets of my story to defend their own beliefs about the LDS church and transgender issues. I cringe when people say, “Wow, if only so-and-so had done things like Kyle.” I hear this kind of ally when I hear people tell me that they have been waiting their entire lifetime to find an LDS LGBT individual who is truly happy within the Church. This is incredibly destructive, both to me and to whomever I’m being compared to. If I am merely reduced to the portions of my story that someone agrees with, I cease being a person and become instead a political object--a propaganda piece. I hate feeling like I am being reduced into a mascot, or feeling like all my struggles and problems and pain don't matter. These allies, as soon as the going gets tough or any ‘mistakes’ are made disappear saying things like "I'm sorry that you weren't the person I was looking for," or "If you had only tried harder." I don't want to be used. I am tired of seeing my story turned into a blunt instrument to bludgeon other LGBT people into conforming with someone’s ideal of behavior. I want people to engage with me. I want to be helped when I am struggling. I want to be encouraged when I am down. I want to be listened to and understood. I want people to understand that my experience isn't messy or clean or simple and that there aren't any easy answers for me or anyone else in a similar position. I want people willing to get down in the mud with me and lift me up when the life is hard. Most of all, I don't want to fear abandonment if I make a choice you happen to disagree with.

• The "Our differences shouldn't matter!” ally: While the "Let me know how I can help! Okay, bye!" ally effectively ignores the LGBT facet of my identity because they don't know how to deal with it, The "Our differences shouldn't matter!" ally actively works to help me change my perspective into a perspective in which being LGBT simply doesn't matter. Now, I certainly don't want to be reduced into only being that one LGBT member of my church (see the "Can you be my personal project?" ally below), but the opposite extreme where my different perspectives and experiences are smothered by a thick layer of white-washing doesn't help me in any way. Trying to help me ignore what makes me different isn't helpful. There is no way for me to simply stop being transgender. It will always shape the way I act, think, and perceive the world. While being a “child of God” is the single most critical label as human beings, other labels necessarily help us understand our experiences and communicate our needs more effectively. You wouldn’t tell someone who tells you they are a diabetic to stop labeling themselves except as a child of God. Terms like this help us interact with people, and denying a term can’t reverse the experience attached to it. 

• The "You’re my new project!" ally: These LDS allies on some level really try to help. They try to engage with the fact that I am LGBT. But all of their interactions feel superficial to some degree. Often these allies feel an obligation or duty to try and help me, whether because of church callings, or a personal need. They fulfill their desire to serve or to fulfill a duty, and then that can be checked off until they feel compelled to interact with me again. I do appreciate the fact that these individuals are trying, but superficial relationships are easy to spot and hard to rely on. Once again, these allies make me feel like less than a person, I become merely that LGBT member who needs help. I don't want to be a project.  

Each of these kinds of allies reduces my identity. The "Let me know how I can help! Okay, bye!" ally ignores that I am transgender. The "You're so righteous! Everyone should be like you!" ally only pays attention to the portions of my story that they readily can use and agree with. The "Our differences shouldn't matter!" ally actively works to cover over the LGBT facet of me, while the "Can you be my personal project?" ally focuses on only the LGBT part of me. While all of these ‘allies’ are trying, these relationships fail because they haven't really taken the time to get to know me.

Luckily, I have been fortunate to find a handful of people who are willing to be what I call a "True Ally." 

What I am most looking for in an ally is someone who is willing to listen. Someone who tries to understand my situation and realizes that they will never understand it perfectly. I want someone who I am able to talk to, and discuss the questions I wonder about. An ally would be able to trust me and my decisions even if they might personally disagree with them. Being an ally means loving and supporting me no matter what. Being an ally requires developing a real, enduring, and meaningful relationship. An ally gives me an opportunity to be authentic and vulnerable, rather than scared, afraid, and alone.

Now, I understand that this kind of allyship takes time and commitment. I understand that this kind of allyship moves many people outside of their comfortable perception of the world. I understand that this kind of allyship requires ministering to the one. I understand that it takes sacrifice and work. Being an ally is certainly not an easy task. 

At the same time, the greatest thing about being a true ally is that any LDS member could and should be able to do all of these things. The hardest things this allyship might ask of you are: to have a real relationship with someone who you disagree with, to admit that you don’t necessarily understand someone’s choices but still extend them trust, and to continue to love and minister even when you are uncomfortable. I am confident that none of none of these points comes into conflict with Mormon doctrine, and that Christ fully stands behind each of these principles.

I guess I would compare being an ally to one of my favorite analogies examining the differences between heaven and hell. In this Chinese tale, a man visits both the land of bliss and and the land of suffering. In the land of suffering, he sees the poor, starving individuals led to a sumptuous feast. Each guest is then given a pair of three foot long chopsticks. These guest ravenously try to feed themselves. Sadly, the morsels of food constantly fall to the ground just out of reach of their hungry lips. Each guest slowly starves with a wealth of food always just beyond their grasp. 

The man is of course depressed by this pitiable sight and decides to continue on to the land of bliss. When he arrives at the land of bliss, the exact same table is set before him. Each guest is again given a set of chopsticks that is far too long to feed themselves. The man is initially confused; heaven and hell seem to be the same. He watches in amazement as each guest rather than feeding themselves proceeds to feed the person across from them. In the end, everyone in the land of bliss enjoys the feast until they are content.

I very often feel like one of the inhabitants of the land of suffering, unable to feed myself, frustrated, lost, and alone. One of the hardest realizations for me has been that no matter how hard I try, I can't do this alone. I can't feed myself. I can't come close to taking care of my own emotional needs. I am in constant need of support and help.

I need a community of people willing to feed me when I am starving. This isn't a task that can be accomplished by a single individual. It's too much work for one, even if Amy does an incredible job trying. I am so grateful for those friends in Utah who were willing to engage with all of me (a special thanks to Mark, Carli, Merrill, Kobe, Cavan, and Roz). Each of these friends has tried to engage, spent the time to listen, and then asked questions trying to further their own understanding of me and of being transgender. And I’m grateful for my new friends in Illinois. It takes time to build a real, emotionally vulnerable relationship, but I can see the seeds of new friendships starting to flourish.

So, with this Chinese tale in mind, perhaps being a good ally requires being willing to ignore your needs, preconceptions, and personal culture in order to take care of the needs and pains of another. That's probably my favorite definition of allyship. This requires developing a real relationship, which is going to take time and effort, but while you are working on feeding me, I've got a pair of long chopsticks waiting for something to do. I hope you are hungry.

Ky

The Ministry of the Marginalized

The Good Samaritan (see http://www.art4god.com/store/the-good-samaritan for more info on this awesome painting)

It's always weird sitting down to write. I wonder who I am writing to. I wonder why I am writing. I sometimes wonder if anyone is really listening. I guess I find myself called to write because I want to continue to stand as a voice for others who feel outside or different.

Currently, I find myself in kind of a weird place. Moving into a new ward means playing through the same dance, slowly having different people in the congregation find out that I'm trans, and then watching people come to terms with that (or not coming to terms with it) in different ways. For many people, the mere revelation of my differences is enough to make them uncomfortable. My willingness to admit an identity that some see as contrary to God's plan creates some degree of friction.  Frankly, going to church is the hardest thing I do every week. I'm afraid and tired of the inevitable comments condemning LGBT individuals. I'm tired of just feeling different. Too often those comments feel like they strike at me and my feelings. It really is an exhausting experience. 

As I was pondering the reasons for some my current fears and anxieties, I realized that almost all of these uncertainties and tensions revolve around a fear of being different, fear of sticking out, or a fear of being the other. I am still coming to grips with how much trauma not feeling male caused me as an LDS teenager. I tried so hard, for so many years to merely belong and I often feel like I failed at even that. 

I certainly don't claim that a fear of being different is in any way unique to me. In fact, this fear of being different surrounds all of us. These differences can be big or small, but regardless they isolate us and make us feel alone. I remember having one of my brothers tell me about how out of place he and his roommate felt because they didn't want to attend church activities that focused on going boating, or playing basketball. What happens to men not interested in the scouting program, or women who find homemaking activities boring? What happens to all of these people who don't fit into the standard Mormon mold? I think that all too often, they leave. It's hard to stay in a place where you feel like the other and aren't sure you belong.

There are a great many people within the church who feel like the 'other.' Just a quick look through the recent news cycle gives us a glimpse of some of these people. We live in a culture that still seems to privilege white caucasian members (https://medium.com/@VoteDarlene/racism-in-utah-b85710fd00a6). We live in a culture that so strictly enforces gender roles that Mormon women often feel they need to meet crazy ideals (https://www.allure.com/story/why-so-many-beauty-bloggers-are-mormon). We live in a church accused of causing youth LGBT suicide's (https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/is-the-mormon-church-to-blame-for-utahs-increase-in-lgbtq-youth-suicides_us_59e7ddbbe4b0d3554d20fbdd). I'm guessing if you took a minute to look through those articles, they made you uncomfortable to varying degrees. It's easy to feel defensive when discomfort arises, but I hope we can learn to sit with that discomfort and instead ask ourselves, "There are some members of my church who feel this way. What can I, personally, do to help them feel more welcome?" In the end, this isn't anything profound but rather a simple extension of the questions, "What would Jesus do?"

We, as human beings, are deeply uncomfortable confronting ideas or thoughts that make us shift our paradigms and confront the 'other.' It's a really hard thing, and it's far easier to ignore differences. No matter where I go, I hear the idea expressed that it is better to isolate ourselves and our children from a wicked world. It's a common talking point both online and in Elder's Quorum. For me, statements like these seem to say that protection of our values up to the point of isolation is much important than ministry or reaching out to others.

Yet, ministry is the reason for the church. Reaching out to those different than ourselves is why we have a community, not to bring together like individuals, but to force us to confront people with different lives, experiences, challenges or views than our own. Opening up ourselves to confront and see differences is hard, and causes discomfort. But discomfort has never been a bad thing. Rather, we need to learn to sit with our discomfort.

I see examples all around of people failing to minister. The #metoo campaign which has been going around social media is a perfect example of how this opportunity can be completely missed. I see too many men making it about themselves, saying "I don't do this. Why should I feel guilty?" But that is beside the point. It was never about how you feel, but rather an opportunity to listen to others. We can't minister, we can't befriend, and we can't help individuals whom we refuse to listen to.

I see the exact same response to the LGBT youth suicide debate. It doesn't matter if you think statistics are being misused, or if you think sources blaming the Church for suicides are wrong, or if you think that suicides are only the responsbility of those who commit them. Do some teens feel like they are evil because of feelings they have? Do some LDS families horribly mistreat their LGBT children? Is LGBT youth homelessness a problem in Utah? If you even think the answer might be a yes to any of those questions then all the previous concerns are moot. Instead the only questions that matter are: What am I doing to help these youth? How can I help them feel loved? How can I minister to people different from myself? Answering these questions doesn't require you to change any of your beliefs or views, merely to consider someone else for a moment. And I am certainly not going to tell you how to answer these questions, merely asking you to consider and to find an answer that works for you. 

It's easy to forget that Jesus himself spent his ministry working with samaritans, publicans, prostitutes, and other marginalized populations. I imagine that if Jesus were here on earth today continuing his ministry he would continue this trend. The greatest part of this work is that each of us have our differences our moments of otherness however brief or massive they might be. There is no person on this earth who doesn't need a good Samaritan to come and lift them up when they have been beaten down. 

It's easy to look at our congregations and only see sameness, so in some ways being different has become symbolic for me. By being one of the 'others' I can help stand for all 'others' within and without our community. I've been reading a lot of queer theory lately, and realizing that this 'otherness' I have been so afraid of is not neccessarily a bad thing. Perhaps, feeling marginalized is a calling to this work of lifting others up, since we know what it is like to be passed by on the road. So I am working to claim my own otherness, my own "queerness."

I am the other. And I will own these feelings of ugliness, of not belonging, and of feeling different. Every day I stay is another day of triumph, where I can stand and say, "I am here, I am different, and I belong!" I will constantly strive to remember how alone I felt as a teen, how ostracized I was, thinking that everyone was the same because all too often we pretend to be. I can't let that happen to anyone else. So, as far as I am able, I stand as different. And by standing as different, hopefully many others can find the courage to stand in their own differences as well. We are not a homogenous church, so let's stop pretending that we are.

It's easy to see such a declaration as a shot at the church, or as a way of undermining doctrine or theology that you hold dear. I'm not. I'm not demanding that you suddenly change; I'm not advocating for change. I'm just encouraging you to spend a moment considering something different. All I ask is that you leave a place for me and anyone else who feels like they have been pushed to the furthest most edges of belonging. This for me is how I build Zion, God's kingdom on earth, by holding open the gates for so very many people who at one time or another felt left behind or abandoned.     

Sticks and Stones: Wounds and Tears from the Current Transgender Discourse among Church members

Kudos to the guy that builds these!

I often compare building my place among the membership of the Church to physically constructing a house in Zion. As a transgender member, I often feel like I am building my abode out of toothpicks stacking them one at a time, very slowly. The merest breath of public disapprobation causes some of my carefully placed toothpicks to tumble down; I painstakingly gather up the fallen toothpicks and place them again, and again. I'm constantly starting over as toothpicks fall, I'm never finished, I'm always building.

If public disapproval or lack of understanding is a breeze, condemnation feels like rocks being cast down onto my little house. Lately, I feel like a lot of rocks have been falling on my home hurtling broken toothpicks like shrapnel, leaving giant gaps in my lovingly crafted, yet fragile abode. I start repairing the damage and another rock falls. Sometimes I feel like I can't keep up with the damage. I wonder how anything is left standing at all, only a fragile skeleton of a home remains trembling at the slightest breath of wind.

This latest bout of stones was brought on by the LDS Church's amicus brief regarding the transgender bathroom issue. Now, I should clarify it was not the Church's brief (which was consistent with past policy, and didn't really affect me or change anything... still waiting for further teaching from the brethren here), but rather the response from my fellow Church members.

Let's be clear, in every way I try to be a faithful member of the Church. I attend church regularly. I play organ every Sunday. I teach Sunday School and try to get the kids to love God as much as I do. I fulfill my callings, honor my covenants, heck I even do my home teaching. Those rocks being thrown are aimed at those "other" people, the "rebellious" ones not living "right," the nameless victims of the unending culture war that we are constantly waging. Yet each time those stones are hurled, they land in my house. They break my heart, and they attempt to evict me from my little shack here in Zion.

Let me explain. People say lots of different things about transgender people, but a surprising portion of those critiques are of mental states, of cosmologies, rather than of lifestyle, like you'd expect. Lots of statements such as: "God doesn't make mistakes." "Your feelings are delusions, they aren't real." "Just be like the rest of us." "What is right is right, what is wrong is wrong." -- Black and white. Right and wrong. Get with the program. Your struggles aren't real, your problems are fake or you are simply crazy, stop wasting our time and get a grip.

Some are far more pernicious, attempting to take away my right to be human: "If a person thinks they are dog, it doesn't make it right to urinate in public." Such comparisons to animals, to criminals, and to pedophiles abound.

Lest you doubt me, these are all quotes from Facebook and discussion sections on the Deseret News and Salt Lake Trib, and I can send you links to them if you'd like.

Now, you might say something like, "but Kyle, these quotes obviously aren't talking about you. You aren't one of them," meaning, I presume, that I haven't transitioned to an extent that makes people uncomfortable. I'm following the "right" path. But the difference between me and the people for whom those comments are meant is minor, a difference of degree of expression rather than condition. I understand their desire to transition because I too have felt that desire. I understand their need to fit in because I also want to fit in. In every way, I share in the "delusion" of gender dysphoria, only expressing it differently from some people. I am that trans Other in every way that matters, and thus, those stones hit me too.

Some might say, "But Kyle, Dumbledore says our choices make us who we are, not our characteristics, and your choices are different, so don't take these things to heart." How can I not? I don't feel so very different. My experience is not so very different. The vast majority of these careless remarks focus on the experience of having gender dysphoria, feelings just about every trans person I've ever heard of experiences every day, including me.

I was recently asked by a good friend how they could help, what they could do. All I wish for in this unending war is that we can treat the Other side with a touch of human dignity and compassion. So if you too would like to help, please stand up, remind others that we are human, that harsh words hurt people like me too. Please don't be silent. Share my story. Share the stories of other transgender individuals you know. If you don't know me, please ask me questions, and get to know me. Teach your children that it's okay to disagree, it's okay to not understand, but it's never okay to denigrate a child of God.

As you think about this. I'm busy trying to repair my place in Zion. I'm picking up scattered toothpicks and trying to super glue them back together. I'm carefully returning them to their place. Some of you might still cast stones. Others of you might wonder why I am even here, thinking me insane for building over and over again, but hopefully some of you might come lend a hand. I've come to see that the good Lord has plenty of toothpicks for us all.

No Mud, No Lotus : On happiness

Sometime while writing it is easy for me to focus on why life is hard, to focus on how different things hurt, and to spend my time trying to explain what my experience feels like. While this kind of writing is laudable it certainly doesn't reflect the entirety of my life. Recently I have been asked two different questions that have reminded me of the importance of expressing more completely the entirety of my life, including the happiness and the joy.

It was in a delightful interview with a member of my stake presidency that I was asked the first question. In essence I was asked which type of person was I? Was I an LBGT member of the Church who routinely struggled or was I happy? I struggled to find an appropriate answer. How do I answer a question like that? It was only later that I realized how impossible that question is. If I am happy, can I still struggle? If I struggle, feel pain, and feel lost does that mean that I cannot be happy? That underlying assertion really confused me. It may be that my dabbling in Buddhism or my study of ancient Stoic philosophy has corrupted me, but I don't think that happiness means freedom from pain, hardship, or even suffering.

Happiness is a state of life. Happiness is a sense of moving forward, of progressing towards God. I think it is possible to be thoroughly miserable in a moment, but to still look at the entire direction of your life with a sense of satisfaction and contentment. Gender dysphoria still causes me a lot of pain. I still wonder how to best live my life, how to best balance Church and dysphoria, and I still routinely feel lost. On bad days, I still occasionally cry myself to sleep in Amy's arms.

But, during moments of calm clarity I wonder at how marvelous my life is. I have someone in my life who loves me, completely accepts me, and wants to support me and be with me forever. I've stopped feeling ashamed of who I am. I'm open and honest about what living with gender dysphoria is like, and I have some dear friends who really want to understand and be supportive. 

These are things that I never would have imagined only a handful of years ago. These are wonderful joyful reasons to be happy. So, sure. I struggle. It hurts sometimes. I wish I had answers about how to best live my life joyfully and authentically while being a faithful member of the Church. But I refuse to allow these facts to deny me my happiness.

I was also recently asked if I thought it was even possible to balance my need to deal with gender dysphoria in a proactive manner, my desire to remain in complete fellowship with the Church, my desire to avoid conflict and not cause waves in public, and my desire to be transparent and really talk about what being transgender really looks and feels like (particularly with those closest to me). Yeah, that is a lot of balancing... and if I'm really being honest the answer is that I have no idea if it is even possible. I might be just like Captain Ahab chasing his white whale, spending my life searching for the impossible and never reaching a destination. 

But isn't this a desire worth pursuing? Sure it may be impossible to balance all these desires. It might be impossible to be an authentic joyful transperson with full fellowship in the Church and minimal social conflict. But if this were possible... what would it look like? How much authenticity, openness, and femininity would it take before my dysphoria fades away? At what point does this expression start to cause distress to others? Where ultimately does the moral line of right and wrong exist in regards to the Church? It seems to me that to be fully Mormon and fully transgender is to pursue these questions in a thoughtful and personal manner.

Perhaps that is where joy is finally found in knowing that you honestly and earnestly pursued the paradoxes of belief and identity. Perhaps happiness is found not in the destination but entirely in the journey. As the Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hahn says, "no mud, no lotus."

Balance, Identity, and Authenticity

I've been thinking a lot about balance and identity lately. Specifically, on what it means to be authentic to oneself. Are we the person we internally feel like or are we better defined as the person others see us as? And who gets to help define us? God? Church? Family? Friends? Society as a whole? Each of these factors influence our identity to some degree. Are these influences better rejected, or do we become a better truer person by allowing others to help define us and our place in society? 

These are some of the questions that have been bouncing around in my mind lately. Now, I certainly don't claim to have any answers. But I thought a conversation might help me sort through some of the thoughts I have, and maybe help me find an answer or two.

Personally, I feel like authenticity is found in some combination of personal feelings and the feelings of others. I saw a great comment on a New York Times article recently. The comment made the claim that authenticity should "include social awareness, sensitivity to the feelings of others, and solid boundaries between what one chooses to keep private and what one makes public." Obviously what those boundaries and social awareness look like will vary greatly from person to person, but it provides a view of authenticity that includes both personal identity and societal influence. It is this very balance that I am trying to find in my life.

In my mind I see four areas that help define my identity. I am defined by my own personal sense of identity. I am defined by my relationship with Amy, specifically in being the person she sees and defines me as. I am defined by my relationship with God and the Church. Finally, I am defined by society as a whole (with priority placed upon how my relationships with my family and close friends define me). Each of these external relationships defines me just as much as I am able to define myself.

What I find so frustrating is trying to bring these definitions of who I am into balance. Can I be authentic to my internal identity while not destroying those parts of me defined by my very important external relationships? My identity and place in the Church is very important to me, my identity as a husband defines who I am, and the relationships I've had my entire life have shaped the person I am today. I don't know if I would really continue to be me, if I fundamentally changed these relationships. All of these relationships are very much defined by a male identity. How do I balance these definitions of who I am with an internal idea of myself that cringes at every male reference?

An example of this struggle to find balance can be found in the question of names. Names are really powerful symbols. Parents give children names hoping that their children will live up to an ancestral namesake or an expectation the name represents. After that moment a name rapidly becomes a symbol of who that individual is and that name carries all the hopes and dreams for that child. Names represent us and represent what roles we are expected to play in society. Names rapidly come to define who we are to those around us. Names have deep power and eternal significance.

Lately several different people have asked me about preferred names and pronouns. With gender dysphoria male roles, symbols, and expectations cause some degree of pain. The name Kyle feels like a weight I constantly carry around with me, because that name is attached to so many gendered roles and expectations. The pronoun 'he' sounds jarring when used to refer to me. But I'm defined by more than just an internal sense of identity, Amy, Church, and society as a whole have a part in defining who I am as well.

Would abandoning the name Kyle be an abandonment of my male roles, and a part of my identity? I had one friend tell me that if I ever asked to be called be a feminine name, as many trans people in my situation do, he would lose a great deal of respect for me, because he would see that action as an abandonment of my duties. In his mind I would be walking away from being a husband and a priesthood holder. In some ways I agree that changing my name would be a fundamental shift of my identity. I certainly don't want others to view me differently because they believe I've abandoned commitments I made, particularly the commitment of being a husband to Amy.

At church I am Brother Merkley. Is that painful? Yes. But, once again I made a covenant to be a priesthood holder. Brother Merkley represents those promises, and an identity as a male in the Church. This identity is very difficult. But if I am to live up to the promises I've made to a Church I fundamentally believe in, all I can do for now is to live up to those promises as best I can and await further revelation. 

At school I'm Mr. Merkley. Mr. Merkley represents safety, financial security, and social conformity. Sure, once again it hurts to go by a male title but the confrontation, confusion, and harassment that would occur should I try to change that name wouldn't ever be worth it. I despise conflict and don't want to cause any drama. Honestly, just being open about this issue on the internet caused more than enough trauma and anxiety for me this year at school.

So while Kylie may represent my internal identity better, Kyle represents my role as husband and the fact that I was born in a male body with many male experiences, Brother Merkley represents the fact that I have made covenants with God, including holding the priesthood, that are male experiences, and Mr. Merkley represents my desire to avoid conflict and socially conform. Each name is a symbol that represents a part of who I am. Perhaps a single name is not enough to fully represent me, I am all those names and more. Somewhere buried in all those symbols is me. 

How do I balance all these different parts that define who I am? Which parts of my identity ought to be most important? Is it even possible to find real balance, or am I trying to make everyone happy and leaving no one satisfied? I don't know, but I will continue my search for answers.

Sincerely,

me

Gender Dysphoria in the Church : Going Through the Temple

I've been meaning to write a series of narrative posts that might help explain what the experience of gender dysphoria feels like in a Mormon context. Hopefully at some point these will come together into a book of some form. But I thought a good first one might be about the experience of going into the temple and what that feels like for me.

I had been preparing for weeks, perhaps even months, but I kept putting it off. It was so easy to say "I don't feel like it," or "I'm far to busy with more important things." It was easy to say that it was simply too hard to do alone. But if I really took the time to be honest with myself I was afraid: afraid of the pain, afraid of the emotional consequences, and afraid of being reminded that I don't have any answers.

Of course, there's this funny thing called life that happens even if—no, especially if—you are afraid. The temple came up in a casual conversation with some dear friends and I mentioned how extraordinarily hard the experience was for me. Suddenly a resolution had been made that we were doing this together. My excuses vanished like students leaving school on a Friday afternoon. 

It was easy for my excuses to vanish. For a while now I had been feeling so ashamed for not attending the temple. The ordinances that occur in the temple are supposed to be the highest, most sublime form of worship in Mormonism. The endowment was supposed to give me 'endless support and strength' along with 'unlimited inspiration' and 'motivation.()' Not only that, but we believe that it is necessary for us to do our part in helping achieve the salvation and work of redemption for the entire human race. By not going, I wasn't pulling my weight, so to speak. There were individuals, my ancestors even, who were waiting on the other side and I had been ignoring them. How could I not feel ashamed that I was delaying their salvation? How could I not feel a touch guilty that the temple ordinances--which are very gendered--render me a mewling pile of anxiety rather than a sacred instrument of God's work? 

So in some ways I was relieved that I was finally going to do this: once again taking my place in actively participating to build the kingdom of God. The other far larger portion of me was in shock. Remembered pain played through my mind over and over again, a constantly looped track of misery. But I was resolved. Real participation in the Church revolves around temple attendance and maybe this time it would be a little better. Maybe...

I did my best to ignore the looming temple trip, filing it in the back of mind somewhere between deep cleaning the grout and filing paperwork. You know the deep dark forgotten crevices of the mind where such essential tasks reside. Ignoring something never makes it any better, but it sure did help reduce the anxiety in the days preceding the temple trip. So ignore your problems. There's my piece of unhelpful therapeutic advice for the day. 

Of course, before I knew it the day of the temple trip arrived. I couldn't run away or ignore it any longer. I felt like, at the very least, I needed to give this a fair shot, and do my best. So I tried my hardest to place myself in a positive healthy frame of mind before going to the temple. I stopped and took some time to just breath, letting my breath fall in and out over and over again, until gender stopped mattering. I was just me, and all that mattered was my breathing. I spent some time reminding myself why I was doing this. I really wanted to feel like I was participating in a part of God's work. I wanted to once again feel like I really was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints for which temple attendance is the highest most noble part of true membership. I wanted to do this for Amy. In some ways I think that to her my temple attendance represents a symbolic showing of my willingness to sacrifice for our relationship, and it makes her so happy to go. In the end, I was just tired of being afraid of the temple. It was time to just face the experience again. I was ready.

Well, I was ready until I put a suit and tie on in preparation to actually go to the temple. Amy and I have worked so hard to build a bubble, a world, where my gender isn't so important. We have dedicated so much time to learning how to avoid popping the fragile sides. We live in constant fear of the emotional flood and the incessant bailing necessary to restore order to our precious and beautiful little world. But, as soon as the tie was around my neck that whole world wavered unsteady under the ponderous weight of masculinity. For a moment I staggered under the load. I might have just given up, but Amy was going with me and we were going to meet some friends at the temple. I even had a male friend who was going to sit next to me and try and make the experience easier. I couldn't give up when I had so much support.

We drove to the new temple on Center Street in Provo which is a beautiful building. Amy and I had been through the open house of the temple but hadn't yet attended a session there. As I walked into the temple the tie around my neck seemed as heavy as many of my students backpacks as they hauled home work that needed to be done after a parent teacher conference. It was a touch hard to breathe and the anxiety was already pressing in a bit, but nothing I couldn't handle. I hardened my resolve and put on my teaching face. You know, that look that always says that you are happy to be there and always willing to work with and help students even if they need a copy of an assignment for the dozenth time. Plus, I was still with Amy, she grounded my every moment creating a safe welcoming place.

Of course immediately after entering Amy and I were separated. I went from the safe comfort of Amy's side into a male changing room. Off flew the suit and tie and only to be replaced with white slacks, a white shirt, a different white tie... I fled the confines of the changing room in record time; racing an imaginary clock counting down the time until the maleness of the space buried me. It was a relief seeing Amy again, and we headed to the chapel to await the beginning of the endowment session.

I spent every moment of time while in the chapel trying to rid myself of the anxiety that had been slowly building up on the trip to the temple and from my foray into the male changing room. I clasped my hands tightly together, took comfort in Amy's presence, and just tried to keep on breathing, repeating over and over with every breath "I could do this, I can do this, I will do this." 

For those of you unfamiliar with an endowment session, the endowment ritually follows the story of the creation of the world, the story of Adam and Eve, the Fall, and the path towards redemption for Adam and Eve and symbolically for all of us as their children. Each individual who participates in the endowment ritually represents either Adam if male or Eve if female. Throughout the endowment, all the participants are reminded of and make covenants to follow the laws of God. These "laws include the law of obedience and sacrifice, the law of the gospel, the law of chastity, and the law of consecration" (https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/ezra-taft-benson_vision-hope-youth-zion/). If we follow these laws, God, through the atonement of Christ, promises all mankind the ability to return to back to his presence and leave this fallen world. 

As soon as it is time, we filed out of the chapel and into the actual endowment room. I spent as long as possible standing next to Amy before we were forced apart as women filed to one side of the room and men went to the other. This clearly gendered divide was even symbolically painted into the room itself with the women's side painted with a swan, doves, and flowers while the men's side is represented with a more outdoorsy less markedly feminine scene of a lake and ducks. The very walls of the room constantly reminded me how out of place I felt.

The man who is seated at my left exudes such an aura of masculine confidence that I unconsciously shrink away down into my seat trying to be invisible and not trying not to let my obvious discomfort show. Luckily, my friend is seated on my right, so I can shrink away towards my friend and take comfort in the fact that someone close to me at least kind of understands how hard this experience is.

The endowment begins. The world is created, the days of creation are numbered and recounted. Next Adam and Eve enter the picture. Shortly after their arrival, the brethren are asked to stand. Everyone around me stands, but for a moment I don't, my friend has to nudge me, and embarrassedly, and quickly, I stand. 

I'm sure many people think that I must have drifted off, but in reality I heard the words but didn't make the connection that the word 'brethren' was supposed to apply to me. I don't identify with that word, and in that moment I didn't even recognize that it was supposed to signify me. That moment starts a downward spiral. I can feel the anxiety closing in, but there is still a long ways to go. I dig my thumbnail into the center of my palm hoping that the pain will help ground me for just a while longer.

While the law of personal sacrifice is discussed, I wonder how much more could I sacrifice than being here in this moment, so out of place, so vulnerable, and frankly so scared. I hope fervently that God accepts this sacrifice and this is enough because I honestly don't know how much more I could give. I'm focusing on my breathing now as well, my thumb nail still being driven into the center of my palm. I'm still trying to listen to the words, but it's getting harder.

The presentation turns towards the importance of the commandments and virtuous living, or the law of the gospel.  My hands are shaking, I'm sweating, and I'm trying to look like I still have everything together. I'm beginning to wonder if this ordinance even counts. I'm going through the endowment on behalf a deceased individual who is male, but am I eternally male? We clearly care that males do the work of males and females do the work of females. Am I actually accomplishing anything by being in the temple? Would this just have to done over again anyways? 

The absolutely essential nature of the law of chastity is once again explained. More questions flood into my mind. Once again, if I feel female what is my eternal gender? If my eternal gender is female is my relationship with my wife even appropriate? The question what am I even doing here pounds into my mind like a mathematical repetend over and over again in an unceasing litany of confusion.

Finally, we consecrate all of our time and energy to helping build the kingdom of God. I can't even listen to the words anymore. I can feel myself falling apart, pieces of me drifting away like ash from a burnt piece of paper. I'm focused on tracing the wood grain on the seat in front of me. In my mind I'm not even in the room anymore. Nothing exists except the patterns on the wood grains and my breath. It doesn't hurt so much here.

The ceremony comes to an end, I stumble over the final exchange in my haste to exit into the celestial room. I need to leave, I can't survive a moment longer. I need Amy...

And finally, I enter the celestial room. I see Amy and relief floods through me. Finally, the one person who really understands me, who understands how hard this entire experience was, and who knows that a large reason I endured this experience was because I love her. She looks radiantly happy. The temple always has that effect on her. Divine serenity clings to her like dew on fresh daffodils. I see her smile at me and I know that even if I'm not sure how my Heavenly Father accepts my sacrifice, she at least understands and is so grateful for the gift I have given her today.

We embrace and instantly I'm not so alone anymore. I feel loved for who I am, validated and understood in my pain, and each part of how much I sacrificed to go through this session is seen and accepted. I feel the pieces of myself being pulled back together through her love and concern for me. I know that even though it might take a while everything is going to be ok. Because of her, I find myself again.

As I ponder that, a thought comes strongly to mind. Maybe this is a small taste of what heaven really does feel like. This life is so hard, and we all at times ask ourselves why we suffer, why there is so much pain. We all feel alone. But on the other side we have a Heavenly Father who really understands us, understands how hard every moment is for us, and who knows that we are enduring this life because we loved and trusted Him enough to follow his plan. How great will that comfort and relief be, when we finally get to the other side and receive a loving hug of welcome from our Heavenly Father? I pray that the feeling is analogous to how wonderful I felt being held, understood and loved by Amy in that moment.