Bead 6: For Ben, My Sister

When I was a kid, the boys in my family outnumbered the girls 3 to 2.  That's how I thought about it--like a friendly competition I was losing.  I was the oldest.  Lisa, my sister, was six years younger than me, an impossible distance when it came to girl talk, sharing clothes, friendship.  Between us was the commotion of David and Jon, brothers at war.  Ben was the baby, and the best loved by his siblings.  He was happy and sweet, with eyes that squinted when he smiled.  Lisa and I doted on him, to the point of putting him in Lisa's most princessy dresses and pretending he was the youngest of the Jensen girls, Benjela.

Today, the girls in my family outnumber the boys 3 to 2.  Ben is Samantha Claire, the youngest of the Jensen girls.  She is happy and sweet, with eyes that squint when she smiles.  But there were many years in between Benjela and Samantha when the smiles came slower, or not at all.

Ben and me in 1985

The three boys in 1990

 
On May 13, 2016, the U.S. Department of Justice and U.S. Department of Education jointly issued guidance, in the form of a "Dear Colleague Letter," on Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972.  Title IX says, in a nutshell, that schools that receive federal funding can't discriminate on the basis of sex.  The Dear Colleague Letter clarified that, for all intents and purposes, "sex" meant gender identity.  That is to say, schools were required to respect a student's gender identity, even if it wasn't the gender they were born with.  Schools couldn't discriminate against a student's transgender status by, say, requiring them to use an individual restroom, or worse, the restroom of the opposite sex.  And schools had to protect all students, including transgender students, from sexual harassment.

To the transgender community, the Obama Administration's Dear Colleague Letter was a shot in the arm.  It was the written manifestation of what U.S. Attorney General Loretta Lynch had said just days before:  "We see you; we stand with you; and we will do everything we can to protect you going forward." 

There is good reason for the federal government to stand with the transgender community, and with transgender kids in particular.  According to the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network (GLSEN), 75 percent of transgender youth feel unsafe at school.  Transgender students are much more likely than their cisgender peers to miss school because of safety concerns, and to drop out altogether.  And the degree to which transgender kids feel safe and accepted, or not, tracks closely with mental health.  A 2012 Canadian study found that transgender youth whose parents rejected their gender identity were 13 times more likely to attempt suicide than transgender youth who were supported by their parents.  The 2013 National Transgender Discrimination Survey found that 41 percent of transgender adults had attempted suicide at some point in their lives.  The rate spiked for those who had been bullied or harassed in school (50-54%) and those who had suffered physical or sexual violence at school (63-78%).

Ben in 2003

Between Benjela and Samantha, there was teenager and young adult Ben.  Teenager Ben lived alone with our parents on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, after the rest of us had moved out.  Teenager Ben slept a lot, and wore shorts almost everywhere he went, year-round.  I didn't know he struggled with depression until after the fact.  I just thought he was my quirky little brother.  At one point he cropped his hair close and bleached it white-blond.  He recorded songs with his buddy Greg in which he did a lot of whistling.  He wore dress shorts to his senior prom.  He had a genius IQ, which he applied just enough to keep our unrelenting "tiger dad" off his back. 

Young adult Ben went off to college at Brigham Young University, where he briefly had the company of all of our siblings.  He hung out with Jon and watched a lot of South Park.  He dated girls he didn't particularly like.  We kidded him about his dismal hygiene; he once stopped brushing his teeth in hopes that his current girlfriend would break up with him.  After a year of college, young adult Ben went on a Mormon mission to San Diego, where he taught native Mandarin speakers.  I remember seeing pictures of Ben from his mission in which he was beaming.  It wasn't the sweet, squinty-eyed smile of his Benjela days, but an electrified grin that seemed to open up his whole face.  By that point, I had heard about his depression.  I wasn't Mormon anymore, but I was glad he was, if only it kept him as happy as he looked in the pictures.

After his mission, the smile dimmed.  Or rather, it turned wry and enigmatic, as Ben kept odd hours, played music, managed school.  He grew his hair shaggy, wore '70s lumberjack plaid and 3D glasses with the lenses removed.  He moved in with some guys who drank a lot, and while I didn't think he himself was boozing, he certainly didn't seem very churchy anymore.  I secretly applauded the not-churchy bit, but hoped Ben would be okay without the sense of purpose and community that often accompanies Mormonism.

Three years after Ben's mission, she came out to our family as transgender.  For her, it had been steeping since she was four years old.  For the rest of us, it was a surprise.  I had begun to wonder whether Ben was gay, especially after my not-so-discreet father had intimated to me that "Ben has something really important to talk to you about."  I actually looked forward to Ben's announcement.  Having a gay brother would be fun, I thought.  As it was, Ben was the unconventional, free-thinking brother I could bounce anything off of--no judgments, no topic too "out there."  To be gay would just be the next level of awesome.  And if this was what was behind Ben's malaise, certainly coming out would help.

But when I learned that Ben was first and foremost transgender, and possibly also lesbian, I was confused.  I wanted to support Ben, but I didn't want to lose my brother.  And wasn't that what this would mean?  For 24 years, I'd known Ben one way.  Now, I was being asked to turn my understanding of Ben inside out, to discard everything I thought I knew.  At the time, it felt like pressing backspace on our entire relationship.  And then typing in words that weren't part of my lexicon, that I couldn't even fathom.

Ben's transition happened over a period of years.  With each new step, I had a tiny internal sulk.  Ben is taking hormones--that means it's really happening, she's really not going to be my brother anymore.  Ben is now Sami--but how can a person give up their name, their whole identity?  I'll try to call her Sami, try to use the proper pronouns, but it will feel like acting.  Sami is planning surgery--and that's it, that's the end, my brother is gone.

 

The three girls in 2011

 

A lot has changed since then.  For one thing, I've loosened my death grip on gender as the defining characteristic of the people around me, and of Sami in particular.  It took Sami coming out to show me how fixated I'd been on gender.  When I realized that her becoming a woman did not suddenly make her a stranger, I started to relax.

 

For another thing, Sami is happy.  Almost as soon as she started hormone therapy, she assumed a level of comfort with her body that I hadn't seen before.  It was in the clothes she wore, how she carried herself.  She was proud of her breasts and hips.  She took care of her appearance, to the point of what I considered to be excessive primping when we were trying to get out the door.  In watching her with friends, it seemed she had a new, vivacious quality.  She flirted and laughed; she was at the center of things.  I take Sami's well-being somewhat for granted now.  From my outsider's perspective, she knows who she is, is loved and supported, and is living her right life.

 

These days, Sami makes her home in Portland.  That's after having lived as a transgender woman in Utah, Japan, and Kentucky.  I worried about her safety from time to time in those places.  I don't worry about her in Portland.  I see Portland as a refuge for liberal, artistic types of all persuasions, a place where people don't have to justify their lifestyles or very existence.  Restrooms in Portland are marked "all gender," "inclusive," and "whichever" as often as not.  By living in a place like Portland, where people are seemingly unruffled by matters of gender identity, I feel Sami is given an opportunity to simply live her life.

Sami was one of the first people I thought of on November 8, when Donald Trump was elected president.  My thoughts went like this:  Thank God you're in Portland.  Please don't ever leave Portland.  The world is more dangerous for you than ever. 

 

We talked a few days later.  Sami, too, had fears for her future--even in liberal Portland.  Brushing her teeth on November 9, she had a sick flash in which she thought, "Why bother brushing anymore?  My teeth will just get kicked in someday." 

 

On February 22, 2017, the newly Trumpified U.S. Departments of Justice and Education issued another Dear Colleague Letter.  The letter starts off the same, with messages in Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Tagalog, and Russian urging its readers to ask for language assistance if they need it.  From there, it goes on to undo all the protections of the Obama Administration's 2016 guidance.  It claims that the 2016 letter did not sufficiently build its case with "extensive legal analysis," did not explain how the new interpretation of sex discrimination was consistent with the "express language" of Title IX, and did not give the public an opportunity to weigh in.  The new letter maintains that, since the authority of the 2016 letter was dubious, at best, it would be left to the states and local school districts to decide which restrooms and locker rooms transgender students would be allowed to use.  The letter ends on a note of good will, reminding its audience that the Departments of Justice and Education do not condone bullying or harassment, even of LGBT kids, and that they will continue to do everything in their power to protect all students. 

To that, I say not good enough.  If the scary new alter-egos of these agencies were really trying to protect all students, they would not be removing obvious protections for one of the most victimized demographic groups in our public schools and universities.  That is essentially what I said to the office staff of my two U.S. Senators, Dianne Feinstein and Kamala Harris, when I spoke with them on the phone.  From here, I don't know exactly where to go.  Like a big sister, I want to protect Sami.  And like a big sister, I want to protect the Ben that came before Sami, the high school kid who knew they weren't defined by the body they inhabited, and felt stuck.

 

For my family, Sami's transition has been a beautiful experience.  I have been touched to see how my mother, the only Mormon left in the bunch, and devout enough for all of us, has embraced her new daughter.  She was with Sami when she had her surgery, just as she was with me when I gave birth to my son.  As for my dad, he stayed with Sami for a good part of her post-surgery convalescence, and seems to have settled comfortably into the "whichever" approach to gender identity promoted on Portland's restroom doors.  Sami has one niece and eight nephews who call her "auntie" without question; this includes my son, Zac, who remembers when Sami was Uncle Ben.  I think it's safe to say that Sami's transition has been a transition for all of us.  But here on the other side, it feels nothing like a relationship lost.  I'd call it a relationship doubled.

Sami and me in 2015