VOLCANIC FEATHERS

VOLCANIC FEATHERS
Written By Kaye Iris Rinehart, Nov. 2015
Age: 69
California, USA
MtF

(This poem is dedicated to everyone who grew up with gender dysphoria: not just my friends but all of you)

{This poem uses a language device to show the prevalence of being transgender in all cultures. I use many words that are borrowed from Sanskrit, Japanese, Navajo, Cherokee, and others for the word Spirit/Soul. By Spirit/Soul I mean that part of humanity that has cognitive consciousness. If you see or hear a word that is unfamiliar it’s meaning is probably Soul/Spirit.)

The child was about to be born.
Jeeva in that Quantum Field of separate interconnectedness;
a Quantum feminine point instantly enters
this baby with that very first breath,
drifting in as soft as Forrest’s feather.
The Doctor say’s, “It’s a boy”
The Hwii’siziinii screams NOOOOOOOOOO! I’m female,
as it’s consciousness melds, blends with this child
as the two become one and
a new life begins,
as separateness becomes an integrated knot of potentiality,
with peacock colors.

The child starts to embrace its separateness
it’s uniqueness from those around it.
Recognition of mother, father, sister have brought
kaleidoscope patterns of thought,
whirling around the loci of individual reality.
She sees her baby sister
something is different,
an uneasiness stalks her on barbed crows feet.
My sister is different between her legs. Why?
She realizes that they call her sister a little girl but
they call her a little boy.
Mom says I will look just like dear old dad, but wait,
I don’t like those rough clothes he wears.

I like to watch Mom get dressed.
Watch as she
puts on her makeup. I mimic her and
pretend I’m doing it as well.
Atma is uneasy as the cawing talon makes
a small wound in expanding consciousness.

Mom and Dad talk about God. I don’t really understand God
they talk about praying,
to God, and
God will answer.
I close my eyes and deep within me I ask,
“God will you make me a little girl like my sister?
You know that is what I am. Please
give me a girls body”.

Like so many other little girls my communications skills
arrive very quickly. I have a fluid vocabulary,
I have started to read. I love talking and listening
to my mother and her friends.
My mom often hurts me as she tells me
“This is girl talk
go play with the other little boys.”

I asked for a doll like they gave my sister but
they gave me a ball and glove.
I have a teddy bear. I rock my bear.
I comfort my bear.
My bear is my little baby but the
Adonvdo whispers with a cold icy realization,
“You will never have a baby”.
Warm salty tears freeze against the cruel icy knowledge.
I am a boy. I can’t give birth.
I have no idea what that means
– to give birth -
but my eyes, my runny nose, my shivering,
remind me “You never will”.

For days I was confined to my bed.
They called it flu.
I knew without the proper words that the Ruh
deep within in me
had contacted a psychic fever.
That something had to give or my Linghun would splinter
like the vision within a vision
within that infinity of mirrors shattered by
the evil queen with her apple
thrown with such hatred and force,
shattering all those mirrors. I
have no chance to be the fairest of them all.

I decided I had to play a game. I watched
other boys to see how they acted,
acting,
playing a part,
became my pastime.
I learned to swagger and talk about the silly girls.
When the other guys said,
“I hate girls”. I would nod in agreement.
I became a great actor. My parents no longer
thought that I was a little sissyish.
But there were times,
cherished times of finding lost treasure with Long John Silver.
The family was gone and I was home alone.
The treasure was right there
I could handle it. I could feel it.
I could put on my sisters clothes.
For a short while the golden intensity of feeling
the clutching reality of Ame,
was balanced with the fear that the Admiralty would find me.
I would have to walk the plank.
Or dangle by my neck from the yardarm.

I grew into a young man. Went to college.
Dated and had sex with women.
I had many male friends but
my best friends were always women.
They talked about how easy it was to talk to me,
I wasn’t like other men.
They would ask for
fashion advice.
I just always knew what look they were going for,
I could help them be more Goth,
more punk, more glamorous,
more attractive to men.
I helped them find what they knew about themselves
that center that was truly them. I
just had a way of letting them make the decision but
they always said I was a genius.

I had dreams about some of my male friends.
I was a woman and they wanted me
their powerful desire was for my round, curvy body. I
felt them take me in their arms, I
felt myself getting wet wanting them so deeply, I
could feel them enter me…..
alas the dream would end. I
was still me. A boy.

I had gay friends and I cared for them deeply but
I was not interested in sex with them. I knew
I was really a woman and
I only wanted to be loved as a woman,
real satisfaction could only come in dreams.

I was in my forties. I had
a wife and a child. I was content. I
had all I had ever wanted, but
one day I was sitting on a ledge 7 stories up. The
volcano of my hidden Tamashi
erupted pouring hot lava over my happiness,
my wellbeing.
My very self exploded into volcanic ash and
I felt myself floating off into space,
knowing that this hot ash would dissipate and fall
becoming chilling rain and
the person I was would flow into the ocean
to freeze and solidify,
an iceberg,
losing all humanity.

My heart, my Alma,
my emotions were turning to stone.
I knew the clarity of approaching death and
I had only two choices
jump or
join that hookah-smoking caterpillar,
moving into a chrysalis stage
with hormone therapy,
with changes that
would destroy some relationships,
would change others,
and allow some new ones to form,
as I slowly transformed into a butterfly.

It was die or spread my wings.
I cried from frustration,
fear, and
the deep sharp overwhelming obsidian cruelty.

Then I jumped
spreading my wings,
blessing and thanking everyone who helped me soar.