Detour

*sigh* I think life is a spiritual journey as much as anything, so I try really hard to make sure I’m making as much progress on that part of things as I am on anything else. Occasionally, I start feeling pretty good about my efforts (which should always cause some kind of alarm to sound). I mean, I’m the daughter of a minister, I attended a Lutheran college and took theology classes, I’m working my way through reading the New Testament (again—I think), and I try very hard to think about other people’s feelings before I speak or act.

Then I go and do something stupid. I hate hurting people’s feelings. I hate doing it even unintentionally. I especially hate when it wasn’t intentional but I realize I could have prevented it.

At our Target store—which is located in utter and total suburbia, we’re talking mini-vans, soccer moms/dads and picket fences around every corner—one of the cashiers is, I believe, a transgendered person (or possibly transsexual, I’m not sure what the distinction is, though I’m sure there is one and I think I’ve even heard it before). I noticed a few weeks ago and yeah, it took me by surprise. First, because my brain kept sending me conflicting signals. Feminine facial features and make-up = woman. Stubble and broad shoulders = man. The nametag was no help because it just said “New Associate” or whatever. Second, because it was TARGET. In the SUBURBS. If the suburbs have any complaint against them, it is that they tend to be too homogenous, not enough texture and contrast from differing religions, ethnicities, etc. This is not to say that suburbs should be this way and that people who are different in some way aren’t welcome, but that usually you find more diversity (of all kinds) the closer you get to the city. And we are very, very far from the city.

I immediately looked away because I was afraid of staring. Then I realized that not looking was probably just as odd as staring, so I tried to act normal and…well, there are very good reason why I’m NOT an actress. All I kept thinking about was the movie Roxanne where Steve Martin plays a version of Cyrano DeBergerac and everyone keeps telling the new guy not to stare at his very long nose, but he does anyway. It’s a very funny scene in the movie, not so much in real life. I wasn’t grossed out or offended or anything, but fascinated and immediately had all kinds of questions (which I, thankfully, did not ask). However, I realize that can be equally offensive in a different way. She (I think that’s correct pronoun and I’m not trying to be funny, I’m just not sure what’s correct) is a human being, not some kind of social experiment to be interviewed. So I did the best I could, smiled politely, tried to make eye contact and thanked her when she handed me my receipt.

However, immediately upon arriving home, I told my husband. Yeah, I know that’s like totally immature and it shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was. Just sort of shocking. Like opening your back door and finding a dinosaur or something—your temptation is to yell to the neighbors, “Come see this!” (And yes, I know that dinosaurs are not people, the metaphor is not really apt as transgendered people aren’t extinct or particularly dangerous as dinosaurs are or would be…but you get the idea). And this also illustrates what I should have been learning all along—to see her as a person rather than a fascinating variation.

So, you know where this is going. Last night we went to Target again and we ended up (not intentionally—in fact, I would have avoided it if possible just because I knew the potential for something going wrong was high) in her line again. I turned to give my husband the “wide-eyed look of importance” and catch his attention by whispering, “Hey!” I was also trying not to laugh, which is what happens to me when I get into uncomfortable situations. Growing up and getting yelled at by my dad, I would sometimes start laughing just because I couldn’t take the tension anymore.

But that’s where everything went wrong. I shouldn’t have signaled to my husband even though I meant no harm. I’m fascinated by the psychological aspect of it—how hard would it be to feel like you were born in the wrong body (if that’s even the case in this situation, which I’m assuming it is) and to be brave enough to live the life you want instead of the life your body (and society) says you should? But that’s not seeing the person as an individual and with compassion but with fascination and fascination has a sharper edge to it than you might think.

Apparently, my subtle signal was witnessed—though I had my back turned, so it may have in fact been my husband’s face at my signal that gave me away, but either case, MY FAULT—and the cashier was very cold and distant through the transaction. Obviously, I hurt her feelings and the fact that she probably suffers that and worse on a daily basis doesn’t make it better. My husband wasn’t happy with me either as I triggered the whole thing. *sigh*

The dumb thing was, I didn’t even think. It wasn’t like I set out to be a jerk. It just happened. Not that that’s an excuse, but more of a surprise. I have always thought that jerky-acting people set out to behave that way, not that it might have surprised them too.

So what’s the lesson for today for Stacey? This wonderful quote that I’m borrowing from my friend, Tora Pine’s, journal:

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."--Plato