MX (EM ex) Mare Martell

I’m no longer going to title myself with Mrs. or Miss or Ms. I’m not even going to impose myself on my brothers at arms standing tall in the Mister world. I’m claiming Mx. I’m setting my feet firmly on the label.

It’s the most commonly used gender neutral moniker used; where the x represents a wildcard. It’s the key to a freedom that I’ve desired since thinking about my gender in the sixth grade and feeling like I needed to be a boy, but not understanding the rejection I felt from the one person I trusted to tell at that age.

I’m not a man caught in a woman’s body. I thought of that for quite a while as well. I have several people that I love dearly who are transitioning between the worlds. It awakened a questioning that I didn’t even realize was there. It made me consider whether I was just a human without gender or am I something that I’ve dreamed about? Am I a Dude? (In the Big Lebowski way, YES I am, because this Dude Abides!) Would I feel more like me or less like me if I were to present as a more neutral gender or more masculine? What would my husband think? Despite those very difficult questions and hours more, I realized I’m a woman that rarely thinks of being one or anything really. I’m human and that’s good enough for me.

I saw this:

Mx. Mare Martell

I had just had the conversation with my husband about me wanting to use Mr. instead of Mrs. or Ms. or Miss. I explained that I’d seen a Twitter meme where it pointed out that where a man’s title doesn’t change, the woman’s titles are only pointing to how they are related to the closes man in her life. I didn’t like the taste of that bitterness in my conscience which is where the entire thought process began.

May I give a special acknowledgement to Terran Gray who’s gentle support while I struggled to decide where I stand roiled around inside me. They never once made me feel as if I were weird or out of place any more than usual ( 🙂 ) Their kindness and compassion even when I was asking some pretty deep questions were nothing short of a blessed boone. I wish them nothing but the very best in any endeavor they choose. Someone that beautiful in this world is a rarity and I am grateful.

This is where I am in my life. No excuses. No guts. All the glory!

Publicly Primal

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned within.

I want to violate you by releasing my raw primal rage

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned in my silent chest awaiting birth

The “Flesh your heart” punishment of original sin, raped

The mundane act of typing the violation of my rights

as a human. as a woman. as FIFTY ONE PERCENT of totality

while you prognosticate fodder for the war machine

I defiantly consider all acts of subjugation as Slavery of Women

When I’m no longer terrified of how I will sound unrestrained,

You will no longer exist other than in history as bad apples

bitter seeds of spill on the dirt floors of the prisons you built

for me

but will not hold this.

Blues for Children

I've heard their tired voices arguing about who's right or wrong.
Blue Table

I wear our Blues to the table that tucks my knees against the underside

Because I’ve witnessed what we’re leaving for them, legacies of lies.

I’ve sat at the table, the children’s table, minding them for far too long

I’ve heard their tired voices arguing about who’s right or wrong.

They are not my future, but they are yours without a doubt.

You should sit and listen to the children’s table, so change can come about

They see blue as hopeful, I think, but only as hopeful as the Blues

We have gone and lost them a costly sum of what it means to choose.

My Dear Friend

From your loyal heart, I have embraced devotion.

In a moment of melting, you prop me up with support

From your eyes streaming laughter I feel honored with joy

Your generous spirit shares your time with mindfulness

Your acceptance of my human complexity raises the bar.

Your friendship grants me a better life because we “US”

As you give so shall I, never to balance always to grow

The Fragile Human

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

whose eyes may not see

the expression of your sexuality

as a sign of repressed individuality

because I may be jaded by my misogyny.

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

and I am terrified to be

the openhearted embracing destiny;

to stake my claim on my personal history

as one not bound by mainstream society.

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

I am unafraid to be

every breadth and depth of clarity

a shining hope against disparity

standing human by human in equanimity

Be gentle with me,

for although a fragile human I be,

I have stepped outside of me

the one they knew can no longer be

because who I am, I was born to be

And I can no longer hide

I AM FREE!

Holy Water

pitcher

I have a Baptist church pitcher of holy water on my counter

I don’t know how many Sunday’s it witnessed

(Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?!),

but I celebrate the holy water it gives and they gave me.

The preacher arrived bearing a coffee cup filled with good will

opening their church home to me with an invitation

I accepted.

I didn’t accept because they were giving me something

I did, wanting to find a church home, with loving heart

Sunday arrived as did the parishioner to cart me to redemption

There I sat in a church so big, cold, overly puritanical

The ceilings dripped chandeliers over the congregation

I sat through the service where the nice people smiled nicely

I sat through bible study which didn’t feel much like home

I hugged while exchanging pleasantries

with a half-promise to return and a Baptist pitcher in hand.

About a week later, the pastor, accompanied by a scary believer

showed up just in time to help unload my chicken coop.

We shared our views where we sent one another away in love.

But I think of them every Sunday when I nurture my plants

as well as every night when I set the coffee pot with holy water