Welcome! I am Michelle Paquette, and my pronouns are she/her/hers.
I want to tell you a story from my youth, a tale of sacrifice and support. To understand this tale, I need to disclose a few things about myself. I was born in 1953, and reached my teenage years in the late 1960s here in the Bay Area. I am also a person who transcends cultural gender boundaries, that is, I am a transgender person. In my case, as in many others, when I was born the regions of the brain that mediate perception of my body didn’t match the sex assigned to my body. That is, my body didn’t fit my gender identity.
This mismatch occurs about as often as natural redheads do, a normal if infrequent expression of biological diversity.
When I reached my teens, the changes that started to happen in my body were seen as incorrect by the brain’s perceptual network, triggering a strong and persistent sense that something was wrong. The medical folks call this gender dysphoria. Normally, if something was wrong or really bothering me I would have talked to my Mom or our parish priest for guidance, but observation and experience told me that this would be a really bad idea. I had to sacrifice any expression of my authentic self, and hide beside a false front to avoid conflict at home.
Instead, I experimented. I found that growing my hair out helped. If I could dress in a more feminine style, that helped a bit. I was discovering that shifting my gender presentation could be a coping mechanism, but it really wasn’t enough. I couldn’t talk to anyone.
I did read the paper, though. Eventually I read that something radical was happening over in San Francisco. For an extra dime, the bus would take me over to the city.
I put on my flared jeans, my platform shoes (oh, yay 1960s!), and packed a rather BoHo top in my bag. When I got to the TransBay Terminal, I ducked into a restroom, changed my shirt for the top, brushed my hair out, and took off into the city, just another 14 year old hippie chick. I would repeat this trip many times in the next few years.
I found my way to the Tenderloin, and discovered others like me. There were groups that gathered at Glide Memorial, and over on Van Ness at the “Center for Special Problems”. Older women gave me the “Dutch Auntie” treatment, showing me where it was safe to go, where I could rest or eat, and how to avoid being arrested.
The other teens were amazing. I made friends, actual friends! Some were living on their own, or in ‘group homes’ with a half dozen living together in a Tenderloin hotel room. We talked, sharing and caring for one another. We listened to one another. We helped and protected one another.
As the group dynamics shifted, we shifted our preferred hangout over to the Golden Gate Park panhandle and the growing community of nonconformists in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. There, nobody seemed to care about our nature. We could fold and stuff copies of a local paper for food or a place to crash. Amazing music was everywhere. And best of all, I got to just be myself, with others like me. These were the best days of my youth.
That gave me the strength to get through all the days I had to stay hidden, so my existence wouldn’t upset everyone around me at home and school.
I don’t have to hide any more. The days of sacrificing my own existence to avoid upsets are behind me. I am part of a community where we can support and spiritually refuel one another.
Let’s look at how we do this today, as we worship together.
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