As Yoga Teacher Training Comes to a Close...

What is yoga? 

I want to be able to tell you that my answer has changed greatly from the beginning of training to now. That I have become this uber-zen yogi who is ready to channel the Buddha and that I ooze peace and serenity out of my very pores. 

That would be an amazing answer. 

It would be a farce, but it would be an amazing answer.

The reality is that my answer is pretty much the same. I honestly just considered cutting and pasting my answer from the beginning of training and sending it in. But your time and attention and MY time and attention are worth more than that. I learned that in yoga.

When I answered this question six months ago, I wrote about how yoga is breath and breath is life. That remains true. What I have come to realize is that I do not have to be in the studio and on my mat in class to experience that. I can pause anywhere and anytime, take a slow deep inhale, hold, long exhale. Repeat. I realign. I calm. I connect. I find peace in the often tumultuous throws of life. I learned that in yoga.

Once I found my way to a yoga mat, I began to learn that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think. My instructors gave me that. My fellow students gave me that. My heart and my body and my mind gave me that. I learned through physicality and practice and discipline that I could build muscle and train my body to do things I never thought were possible. I have become strong. What I have since learned is that strength is not found or relished through sinking lower in Warrior, or maintaining that full bind in Extended Side Angle, or my hands finding their way to my heels in Ustrasana. I prove my strength when I attempt Bakasana over and over and over, despite an inability to advance my expression of the pose. I prove my strength when I skip a Vinyasa to drop into Child’s Pose (something I still struggle with). I prove my strength when I am insulted by a stranger in Starbucks parking lot and I do not attack back. I prove my strength when I take a comfortable seat, close my eyes, and connect with my Higher Power. I learned that in yoga.

I have experienced coming into myself over the past year and half. I have found grace and peace and groundedness and a home in my body. I have learned that I do me excellently and there is no one else that I need to try to be. I am 100% successful at being Jackson. I learned that in yoga.

In the beginning, Savasana was torture for me. The stillness. The hamster in its wheel in my brain running and running and running. Say “start to bring movement to your fingers and toes” dammit! Bring back the voices and the movement and the guidance. Bring back the stimulation to my mind that I crave because the quiet stillness is not a place I can tolerate alone. I am learning stillness. I am learning quiet. I am learning that in the silence and the stillness and the absence of outside stimuli, peace resides. It is hard for me to find this place throughout the day, but I can always find it at the end of practice. It waits for me there. What used to feel a torture has become a reward. I learned that in yoga.

It is okay.

Dear Facebook memories,

I cannot decide if I am angry at you, or if I am grateful for you.

If it were not for you, I would not know. Curse you.

If it were not for you, I would not know. Thank you.

I was in my early 20s when Harley came into my life. Her father was OJ, an beautiful and majestic Great Dane. He was perfection. He was gentle, kind, wonderful. Her mother was a Great Pyrenees. I did not know her, but I had seen pictures.

As OJ’s groomer I had earned a level a trust from his parents that to this day I am proud.

The trick to being an excellent groomer is not the skill of the styling, although that is important. It is the level of comfort which the client has when they leave their beloved pets in your care. I was an excellent groomer with moderate styling skills. The dogs loved me. The parents loved me. We were all very happy.

When I learned of the puppies, I knew I must have one. I was given my choice. I perused pictures. I met babies. At five weeks she was five pounds and Harley came to my home.

I had never had a puppy before.

I have not had a puppy since.

Harley brought me years of happiness, joy, safety, and love. Her birthday was Valentine’s Day. I always felt that was appropriate.

I could sit all day and tell of stories, memories, joys. The wonder of life with a wonderful dog. Those who knew her, already know. Those who did not, you may have an idea but you can never truly know of her perfection.

At about 12 ½ years, Harley’s heart started to go bad. It was found quite by accident. If you believe that the exam your veterinarian requires annually when giving vaccines is a sham, you are sorely mistaken. Harley was there to board and needed vaccines. The doctor could have easily poked her with the needle and sent her on her way but she did not. She took the stethoscope in hand and listened to her heart. And she heard it. Bongo drums. Her heart is not supposed to sound that way.

We began heart medicine on my gentle giant of a girl who had already lived longer than the average Great Dane OR Great Pyrenees.

There is no preparation for the slow decline of a pet.

She stopped eating.

I bought all of the fanciest canned food that PetSmart had to offer.

Nothing.

I started cooking for her.

I would offer her something. Some egg perhaps. She would eat it.

Yes! I have found something!

I would prepare more and she would turn her head.

Boiled chicken and rice.

One bite and done.

Ground beef.

One bite and done.

Steak.

One bite and done.

She turned into a skeleton, a shadow of who she had once been.

There has to be something else I can try!

She began losing control of her bladder and her bowels. I would come home to find a mess and I would be frustrated.

Then I would feel ashamed.

She would not eat again and I would grow angry.

And I would feel ashamed.

Due to my frustrations and anger, I felt I could not let her go. I had convinced myself that to put her down now would be selfish, an act of convenience. I held on longer than I should have out of guilt of feelings I could not express, I was too ashamed to express.

I felt myself a horrible person for being angry, for being frustrated, for being tired of this wheel.

And she worsened.

And worsened.

I woke up 5 years ago today and knew today was the day.

She went to work with me and I let my Harley girl go.

I compassionately and humanely put an end to both of our suffering. My pain was to ebb and flow for many, many months, but my Harley was free.

I would walk into my home and for a moment I would have forgotten that she was gone. I would look around for her. Why is she not on the couch? That’s weird.

Oh. She is gone. The sadness would come again.

My life was made better for having had her in it.

I share this today to say this:

It is the deal we make with them. We will love them and they will love us and they will bring us years of joy. And then we will outlive them and it will hurt like hell. It will be worth it. It is okay.

No one can tell you it is time. Only you can know. And you will know. You will also doubt yourself in this. It is okay.  

You are not selfish. Letting a declining pet go is never selfish. It is okay.

You will be frustrated. It is normal. This is a terribly painful and difficult experience to walk through. Be gentle with yourself. It is okay.

They trust us to care for them to the end. Do that. You can. I know you can. It is okay.

I miss my Harley girl each day still. But I would not trade it. I would not trade what she gave me for the 13 years that she was my family for the pain and struggles at the end.

My head still says maybe I should have let her go earlier. Maybe I should have tried more, hung on longer. The reality is, I let her go at exactly the right time. Five years ago today.

I love you, Harley girl. We miss you here. 

That day that I roller skated..

I walked nervously into the Rainbow Roller Rink in Conroe, Texas on Sunday. I did what has served me through so many experiences in my life. I acted as if I was not afraid. 

I met my best friend’s people. They met me. I felt on display. I felt anxious. I wanted to represent myself well. I wanted to represent my best friend well.

My best friend Beth is wonderful. It seems that most join roller derby to hit people. Or perhaps to hit on people. Not Beth. She joined to make friends. That is who she is. I am so grateful for her and for them. Roller derby has brought her friendship and community and happiness. She was overjoyed to share this with me. I was not so sure about this. 

I was surrounded by beautiful, amazing, athletic women. You would think I would have been in heaven but I became more and more nervous with each passing minute.

I believe they drooled over me a bit. Six feet tall. Muscular. Masculine energy. Athletic. I LOOK like I belong in roller derby.

Until I skated… But I get ahead of myself.

One handed me skates.

Another knee pads.

Wrist guards.

Elbow pads.

Everyone seemed willing to help this friend of friend succeed.

I donned it all.

I should have opened with this:

I have not been on skates for 30 years.

Let me say that again.

I have not been on skates for 30 years.

I have not rollerbladed.

I have not skateboarded.

I have not snow-skied.

I have not water-skied.

At least one of my feet has been firmly planted on solid ground for 30 years.

I was here to skate.

They handed me safety equipment. I donned it all.

At the opposite end of the building from the entrance to the rink. 

Possibly not the best plan.

They tightened my wheels so I would have more control.

Bash offered her hand and said "Let's go, Jackson."

Wait, what? I'm not ready. 

“Come on. You've got this.” 

I rose unsteadily to my feet.

What do I do now?!?!

I clung to her. I clung to the wall. I clung to any solid object I could get my hands on. 

I was a little old man on a walker with unsteady feet coping with a sudden upheaval of gravity.

I slipped and slid and hobbled and clung my way down the snack bar. Small children skated by me. All got out of my way.

It was not pretty. I was not graceful. I was not good at it. 

My face started to burn.

“Let’s tighten those wheels a bit more.”

They tightened my wheels further.

Again she held out her hand. “Let’s go. We’re going to go step onto the rink.”

I stepped onto the rink. 

If this was a Disney movie, I would have taken one wobbly lap, then found my grace and my balance and my strength and I would have begun smoothly flowing across the rink. I would have sang a catchy tune and possibly picked up Beth and spun her in graceful circles as an accompaniment of forest creatures on wheels danced around us.

My life is not a Disney movie. 

I am Jackson. No matter how many dates, no matter how many tattoos, date shirts, chaturanga arms, and sexy haircuts I receive, I remain Jackson.

It was hard. I hugged the wall. Bash held firm to my arm steadying me. We went back and forth across the back of the rink a couple of times. I was awkward. I was unsteady. Her firm hand on my arm prevented me from falling several times. My face burned. My head became a bad neighborhood as the young children skated by. I wanted to hide as her teammates skated forwards and backwards and sideways and all around as I struggled through my embarrassing attempts at something which seemed so easy to everyone else in the room.

She told me to wait. I waited. She went to get a rack. That may or not be what they are called.

She came back with one of the training wheel walker-like pieces that they have. A PCV pipe walker with wheels on the end. She skated over to me with it and I felt shame. My face was already reddened by the insecurity of watching everyone else on skates manage this better than me. This my ego could not take.

But I wanted to skate with my best friend. These women, this team, this sport, they had become everything to her. They had brought a happiness to my friend that had been missing for far too long. I wanted to skate with Beth. 

Only the youngest children used this support. But I needed to use it. There was no countering the voices in my head that said I was failing. There was not enough step work on the planet to make using this device alright for a 42 year old Jackson. But I was not given a choice. She did not ask. She said "here, put your hands on this. Use it for balance. It's ok. This will help you"

I went back and forth with it a few times, getting steadier with each pass. 

Beth reminded me of how just over a year ago I felt this same fear and insecurity about yoga. And look at me now.

Look at me now indeed.

I gained speed. My fingertips were just grazing the bars. I was using the support less and less.

A girl, maybe around ten, skated over to me. She looked at me and said "you're doing great. You can totally do this. Just keep trying". I got a little tear in my eye as I wrote that. How sweet and kind and supportive! An adolescent stranger gave me a message that I could not give myself. 

“It’s time to try without the rack. You can do this.”

She held my arm. She told me what to do. She calmly and confidently skated back and forth with me as I found my feet.  

Lean slightly forward 

Bend your knees 

Engage your core 

Oh! Chair pose! I know this one!

“We’re going to go around the rink now.”

And we did a full circle of the rink. She held my arm. I fell once, slowly, with control, and I landed on my padded knee, just as they had taught me. 

I rested and then we did another circle, feeling more confident.

“Look up, Jackson. It's alright. You know where your skates are, where the floor is. Look up.”

Then we took another lap, but she let go of my arm. She skated next to me. When I threatened to fall, she immediately grabbed my arm and steadied me, but then she let me go again. 

I would have fallen many more times if not for her quick reflexes and strong, steadying arm.

Yoga has done amazing things for my body. Did it enable me to skate like them? Like the child I was many, many years ago? No. But it gave me some balance. It gave me the ability to correct when I would start to flounder. It gave me strong legs and strong core.

I believe I fell four times. 

I will take it. Not bad.

The little girl would occasionally skate by and cheer me on. 

Bash did eventually leave my side, but not until I was confidently skating lap after lap on relatively steady feet.

I skated with my best friend.

We laughed and played and went around and around.

All were certain that I would be very sore in two days. I am grateful for yoga and the body it has given me for my muscles enjoyed the workout and did not suffer for it.

I led a snake line! When I found my way to the back from the front, they cheered me on. “Come on, Jackson, give it a try!”

Nope! I’m good here!

There were pictures and good times and someone was usually there to steady me when I started to fall.

I led a cheer. This part I could do well. We do not do this in yoga, but we most certainly did in soccer.

WHOSE HOUSE?!?!?

I do not know at what point my fear turned to joy

.

I do not know when my fear of what you thought turned into the pleasure of being one of you.

I do know how I got there. 

However,

I suited up.

I showed up.

I took a deep breath.

I stepped onto the rink.

Admittedly, it took a nudge from a roller derby girl.

But who doesn’t at some point in their life need a nudge from a roller derby girl?

Thank you, Conroe Cutthroats.

I had a wonderful time.

Can’t wait to ride again. 

For France

Goddammit. Motherfuckery fuckety fuck. What in the ever loving fuck is the matter with this world?

September 11^th was the first time I remember feeling terrified for the world. It was the first seeds of thought that translated to “I am never safe.”

Being at work. Being at school. Pumping gas. Driving down the road. Sitting in a movie theater. Sitting in a stadium.

“I am never safe.”

Murder in the name of gods that would never condone these actions. Murder in the name of love. Murder in the name of politics. Murder in the name of insanity. Murder in the name of an antiquated belief that one’s skin, one’s gender, one’s sexuality, one’s beliefs, one’s religion, one’s politics, is somehow justified.

How did we get here?

When I worked the sixth step, I began to develop empathy. You know what? Fuck you, empathy. I don’t need this shit. I don’t want to feel the terror and the tears and the pain of an entire country that is under attack right now.

Insanity. This world is full of insanity.

There is so much pain. So much suffering. So much starvation and homelessness and sickness and addiction and death. This world is already so broken without us breaking it further, one bullet at a time.

If you have enough weapons, you can bring an entire country to its knees.

What to do? What can I do?

I do believe in the power of prayer. I have faith in the power of prayer. My feed is covered now with messages of Pray for France. And yes. Do that. Take a moment, bow your head or raise it to the sky and ask whatever Power you believe in to take away the pain and the fear and the suffering. Bring peace to France. End this attack.

And it will end. Maybe because of prayer. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just a silly superstition, like throwing salt over your shoulder. It will end because more men with more guns will end it. No telling how many more people will die before that happens, but it will end.

And once it’s over, they will rebuild. And everything will go back to exactly the same as it was, except it won’t. There will be more fear. And more hatred. And more blame. 

That’s what causes the most rage in me right now. The futility of it all. Tragedy happens, and we up the defenses against more tragedy. But there is ALWAYS another attack. There is ALWAYS another insane monster. There is ALWAYS another terrorist group.

We take our shoes off at the airport. We walk through metal detectors to enter schools. I went to the Social Security office today and they searched my bag. Nothing we do can stop the insanity of this world.

What can I do?

How to find love in my heart? How to find peace? How to find tolerance and acceptance and forgiveness? How to sleep at night?

I have no fucking idea.

This isn’t working. You see, when I’m full of emotion like I am this second, I sit and I write and I find the peace. I find the solution. I find the spiritual principle. The moral of the story. The positive message. Then I am whole and I can face the darkness that our world has become yet again.

I can find no happy ending to this fairytale. I wish I could.

All I can say is that although not a single person in France even knows I exist, let alone will read these words, I am sorry that this is your reality right now. I would take away your fear if I could. I love you. You are not alone. Help is coming. This night will end. You will know peace once again. Just hold on.

Maybe if we could all just give ourselves that message, and truly hear it, this world could start to change. Maybe

Sticks and Stones

I voted. So not the point of this story, but it should be.

I haven’t voted in a very long time. There’s no excuse for that. There are explanations/justifications/rationalizations, but there’s no excuse. I have not been a responsible member of society. I’ll say that again. I have not been a responsible member of society. I know it. I own it. I’ve changed it. So, I voted. I made the decision to do things differently, and I did. It feels good. It feels good to make different choices.

Those of you who have been following my journey know that I’ve changed a lot. Not just physically, although that’s a huge part of it. I still struggle daily with insecurity, but I do not live my life in fear. I have courage and sometimes I even can manage a confident swagger. It’s new, but I kind of like it.
  

It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining. It’s cool but not cold. It’s glorious. The polling place happens to be right on the way to the post office and it’s a lovely day. A perfect day for a nice stroll.

So I’m walking. Audiobook in my ear. Sunshine on my face. Going to vote for the first time in I don’t know how many years. Feeling good. Better than good. Happy. Joyous. Free.

I don’t know who he was. I didn’t recognize the car. I only got a glance at it as it was passing anyway. If only I’d been listening to music. Usually I am and much less ambient noise gets in. I probably wouldn’t even have heard it. During a pause in the book, I heard the words roll out of his window.

“Hey dyke”

Lump forms in throat. Redness rises up cheeks. Tears try to form.

Just keep going.

(you’re different)

Fuck him.

(people are judging you)

Who cares?

(you’re weird)

It doesn’t mean anything.

I walked into the fire hall to vote and my mind was so discombobulated that I had trouble following the directions that they gave me. It felt like my head was underwater. Everything was a little hazy and the words didn’t seem to want to sink into my brain. I sat and looked at the ballot and had no idea what I was doing there, what I was supposed to do. A couple of deep breaths and I was able to focus enough to read the names, to remember who I had decided to vote for, and to completely fill in the little ovals. I got my sticker. I should’ve felt proud of myself. I deserved to feel proud of myself.

What I felt was the stares. The judgment. The separateness. Just like that, my head had turned into a bad neighborhood.

As I continued my journey up the road to the post office, each passing car carried another set of eyes that were looking at me. Watching my separateness. I heard the voices of my youth. “What IS that?” I was trapped in a shame spiral of self deprecation, insecurity, and self-centered fear.

Music. Sometimes music is just what the doctor ordered. “Release that Shit” playlist is in order. Loud, fast, angry, booming. Its sole purpose is to push the feelings away. Anger may not be the healthiest defense against self-centered fear, but it’s often effective. Master of Puppets so loud it made my ears hurt and the rage swept through my body and shot out my feet each time I felt them pound onto the pavement. A little Sabotage and I started feeling the music more than the emotion. Then, Suggestion.

Why can’t I walk down a street free of suggestion?

So my question for you, dear ones, is this:

Where do I vote to stop being a second class citizen?

Where do I vote to change to a world where anyone, anywhere can walk down a street without being leered at, or shamed, or judged, or risk physical violence solely based on who they are?

Where do I vote to be able to walk down the side of the road with the same rights, protection, and sense of security as a white, heterosexual man?

Where do I vote for that?

Also the term is genderqueer, dickhead. And I voted today. 

I have a Dad.

This was an emotional weekend. I was all over the map. Up. Down. Up. Down. All over the place. It got better, it got worse, it got better, it got worse. One of THOSE weekends. Locked in my brain, allowing the hamster in its little wheel to have free reign. Listening to the committee argue and following the suggestions of whichever voice was the loudest. Never ever a good thing. It was a cryball kind of weekend. Women who are criers probably won’t understand that reference, but for some of us, crying is a challenge. It simply won’t come. I equate it to a hairball. It sits in my throat and makes swallowing hard and keeps me constantly on the verge of panic or depression. It also makes my rational thinking go caput and the impulses of my defects start to seem like a good idea. I even tried pulling out the big guns. The Trapeze Swinger. On repeat. I almost hacked that cryball up but, alas, no luck.

I had spent the weekend with the Yoho’s. You know that thing where your best friend’s family adopts you and treats you like one of their own? They love you and accept you and feed you and parent you and are kind and gentle and generous? That thing. I spent the weekend there. I spent the whole weekend with a family who didn’t even bat an eyelid at meeting Jackson for the first time. They loved Jennifer. Now they love Jackson. It was like I never even was Jennifer. Just Jackson. It filled me up and my heart soared. Since my emotional landscape makes not even a cursory amount of sense, this made me very overwhelmed and kind of sad. I have talked to three out of four of my family members and two out of three have accepted Jackson. So yes, to get unquestioning acceptance and support made me feel some things that may or may not have matched the situation.

I am a masochist at heart apparently because I decided that this day, cryball day, was the day to talk to Dad. We talked about his vacation, the problems with his rental car, his work, his family, his life. I listened and inserted the appropriate “wow!” or “that’s terrible” or “fantastic!” in all the right places, while my stomach got more and more knotted and my hands started to tremble. Finally, the pause happened. He had run out of things to say.

“Uh, Dad, I need to talk to you about something and I’m not sure you’ll understand. But we can talk about it and you can ask me whatever you’d like.”

(gulp)

“I’ve never felt comfortable with the name Jennifer. It’s never seemed to fit right. I’ve felt for a while that I wanted to change it to something that better suited my personality.”

(deep inhale)

(deep exhale)

“I’ve changed my name to Jackson.”

There. I’ve done it. I’ve said it. And now, we wait.

….

…

…

And then my Dad, my father, my daddy, the man who protected me from the boogeyman when I was a little girl and terrified in my bed, began to speak.

“Even though I haven’t had a lot of exposure, I’ve never had a problem with gay people. They’re just PEOPLE. I think that if that is who someone is, then that is who they are. I remember when Ellen DeGeneres came out on that sitcom, it ruined her career. I’ve always thought that was just criminal. It’s just who she is. And as far as gay marriage is concerned, why shouldn’t two people who love each other be able to get married? Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that it’s legal, there’s still stupid little court clerks trying to gum up the works. You’re my daughter. I love you. I think the name suits you.”

I couldn’t talk. The cryball was blocking my entire throat.

He continued. “Do I start now? Do I start calling you Jackson now?”

Yes, Dad. Thank you. My full name is Jackson Alexander Clark.

“And how are you spelling Alexander?”

A L E X A N D E R

“It’s you. It sounds like you. It fits you.”

Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.

“Do you look different? Have you changed your look? You know, I don’t have any pictures of you since you visited us in Naples (about 14 years ago). It might help me to seal it into my brain if I could see how you look now.”

Pictures. My Dad is asking me for pictures. The same Dad who 20 years ago mailed my brother and me boxes of all of our childhood pictures and papers. He asked me for pictures. He wants to see what his daughter Jackson looks like today. 

There aren’t words.

We said our goodbyes. I said “I love you, Dad. Thank you so much.” He said “I love you, too Jen… Dammit! I did it anyway!”

It’s okay, Dad. It really is okay. We’ll talk soon. Thank you.

I got off the phone and I texted him pictures. I got my first ever text from my Dad.

“Like your hair in this one. You do look quite different now. We can definitely associate your new name with the new images of you. You look great. Love, Dad”

And to my Dad, I am Jackson. Just like that.

I sat and read his text and the tears came. Not enough. Not enough by half. Just a couple. Crying is really hard when you’re not a crier. But the cryball is shrinking. I can breathe. I can swallow. I can talk.

My Dad accepts me exactly as I am.

Before I picked up the phone, I imagined all different ways that the call could have gone. I was way off. I wasn’t even close.

I have a Dad. My Dad. 

Call me Jackson

 I’ve been called a lot of things. Jenny. JC. Jen. Jenn. Bratlax (thanks, bro) (#yearsoftherapy), Jennifer, ma’am, Miss Jennifer, Mr Clark. And once, when an ex was REALLY mad at me, Jackoff. We won’t go into that one. People often ask me what I prefer to be called. My answer is always the same.” I introduce myself as Jennifer, most people call me Jen, you can call me whatever. I don’t like Jenny.”

It feels like a lot of time has passed since I discovered and accepted that I have the right to be handsome. I’ve made so many changes and grown so much. “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” More courage than I would have thought I possessed. But, afterall, I am braver than I believe. It says so right there on my arm. And Christopher Robin wouldn't lie. 

In the last several months, I’ve learned some new terms. Boi. Genderqueer. Masculine of center. I’ve had to use a lot of google. I don’t know if my lack of exposure to people like me caused my ignorance of these things, or if my ignorance caused my lack of exposure. Either way, I’m learning now. Forty one years of trying to figure out who I am and all of a sudden, boom. I’m here. I liken it to being in high school, discovering lesbianism, and running out and buying Birkenstocks (check), rainbow stickers (check), and an Indigo Girls cassette (check). Yes a cassette. Forty one years. Keep up, people.

When I googled the term genderqueer, it felt like putting on a pair of shoes that fit for the first time ever. I’ve spent my entire life trying to force my identity and my gender into a predefined societal box and it simply did not fit. Square peg, round hole. You can get a hammer and beat that damn peg through the hole, and you will get it in there, but it will splinter and rupture and fracture and break.

I choose wholeness today.

So, my name. Jennifer Anne. Girliest, most effeminate name ever. There is no wiggle room there. It’s all girl. I was almost a Kimberly. That wouldn’t have been much better. I’ve never felt comfortable with my name. (No offense Mom, it’s a lovely name. For a girl) But I’m not so much a girl. I’m not so much a Jennifer. I’ve been told that most of my adult life. “You don’t seem like a Jennifer.” No one could put their finger on it anymore than I could. It just didn’t fit. Now, it is beginning to make sense.

I realized that I have the freedom to decide how I would like to be identified. It’s exciting and exhilarating and terrifying. Yes. I’m terrified. I hope to never get so evolved that I no longer care what you people, my people, think of me. It no longer has to dictate my behavior, but it still matters to me. I stayed stuck for so long out of fear of being judged and fear of being abandoned and fear that the love you feel for me will be taken away if you don’t like what you see.

How little faith I have in you…

The reality is that I know that the people who love me are here to stay. And the people who could be driven away by me becoming who I really am, never really loved me to begin with.

So I wanted an androgynous name. Something that could go either way.

My heart had other plans. From the moment I started getting the urge to change my name, Jackson has been stuck in my head. I know, I know. Not so much with the androgyny. (you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means) I know it’s a man’s name. I kept trying to find something different, the right one, the name that would fit. Jackson. I couldn’t see past Jackson. I have no idea why. It could be because my best friend is in love with Jackson Avery on Grey’s Anatomy. But more so, I think of Steel Magnolias and Julia Robert’s character Shelby. In that movie, she is the epitome of woman. Everything about her is what I envision a lady to be. I can hear her voice, see her mannerisms, think about the way she moves, and THAT is woman. And then there’s Jackson, her beau. Her man. Dylan McDermott was as much man as she was woman. They complement each other like oreos and milk, like yin and yang, like Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock.

Jackson.

The longer I couldn’t shake Jackson out of my mind, the more time I spent turning it over again and again in my mind. Kudos for mom when she gave it to me anyway. Jennifer Anne Clark. J.A.C.

Jackson. 

It’s a name that fits who I am.

The people closest to me know that I’ve been going through a ton of changes over the last year. Long overdue changes. I believe that the people who have known and loved me over the years have seen my struggles with my identity and been powerless to help me. I needed to help me. I needed to work it out. I needed to get there.

I’m getting there.

Hi. I’m Jackson. It’s very nice to meet you. (tail wagging)