For the past four months I've been embarking on a new venture. I've been interning at Chicago Public Radio as an intern for their daily hour long news magazine show called Eight Forty-Eight. The show covers a range of subjects from politics to entertainment but remains focused on the local angle of the story, issues or event.
As an intern for the station, I've had the opportunity to be a part of a team that expects me to contribute just as they do. I've pitched story ideas and ideas for two-way conversations, I've tracked down and booked guests, conducted pre-interviews, recorded produced pieces, and I've even had the opportunity to produce my own feature...WHEW! I've done a lot! I've learned a lot and have several feature stories to show for it. Below are links to three of my feature stories. Writing a feature story for radio takes a lot of work, in addition to writing a story, like you would for print, you also have to decide what audio clips of the people you interviewed you will use, you have to write your "script" and record your voice-over (record yourself saying your lines), then after all of that is complete, you have to put it all together and scoring it is optional, but it always makes the piece better (scoring means adding music to the piece).
In my first feature story, I profiled a local mentoring organization. I interviewed the director of the organization, a mentor and a mentee. I also tried to incorporate what's called ambient sound in this story. Click on the link below to listen!
1/28/10- Organizaton Connects South Suburban Youth with Mentors
In my second feature story, I profiled a community choir that has inspired people from all over the world. I tried to push myself a little further than I had in my first. I played around with adding music within the piece, which really helped to make this story even more compelling. Click below to listen to this one!
2/17/10- Young Singers Make "Soul" Music Together
In the third feature, I wrote about the fashion industry in Chicago and a program the city of Chicago has that help up and coming designers by giving them access to an environment and resources that can help them propel their careers to the next level. Click on the link below to listen!
3/19/10- No Project Runway, These Designers are "In" All Season
I am still working on two more feature stories, and I'll post those as soon as they're finished.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Intro to My Narrative
Like my earlier post, this was an assignment from my literary journalism class I took this past summer. I was asked to write an introduction/beginning to what could be a chapter of a memoir or autobiography. The assignment was to write about a person or place that is special to me. I decided to write "grandma" my older aunt who's well into her 80s. I don't know why I and my other cousins call her grandma, maybe it's a sign of respect or adoration, or maybe it was just a nickname that stuck...in any event we all affectionately call her "Grandma." Below is just a brief introduction to her and her home...Enjoy!
GRANDMA'S HOUSE
Grandma’s Southside Chicago house is over 50 years old. It sits on the 65th block of Morgan Street in a row of neatly lined houses so close to each other if you put your arm out of the bathroom window you can almost touch the window of the house next door. It’s a three story house that has been home to many at some point—my aunt Beverly, my cousins Monique, Monica, and Montel, my mom, and for a short period of time, me. I used to be scared to go downstairs in the basement by myself. There was a huge life-size doll near the bottom of the steps with piercing eyes that always used to stare right at me—she’s gone now.
During most nights when all is calm you can hear the faint sounds of a police siren wailing as it zooms past the house. We always had to make sure to lock the double-bolted door, and only open the screen door for people we knew, after we looked through the peephole. These precautions may seem drastic to some, but it was—is what we’re used to. And although we took extra care before allowing someone into Grandma’s house, once you were in, you were in. Grandma’s house was the center for many family gatherings. I remember many of my aunts, cousins, and even a few neighborhood friends visiting Grandma’s house—sitting on the old, sturdy 1950s couch watching a Bears or Cubs game or when we would sit around the dining room table and play Trouble and then dominoes. Grandma or my mom would keep score, and I found out quickly that “the one with the pen…wins” as Grandma would say with a chuckle, especially when she was the one taking score.
I can still smell the scent of Grandma’s rice pudding and sweet potatoes. But you always had to be careful about eating the meat Grandma would cook. I’ve learned to steer clear of those dishes—One day she was in the kitchen cooking fish head stew, with the eyeballs still intact! Grandma doesn’t believe in letting things go to waste, so she’s known for cooking meat that most would consider road kill.
GRANDMA'S HOUSE
Grandma’s Southside Chicago house is over 50 years old. It sits on the 65th block of Morgan Street in a row of neatly lined houses so close to each other if you put your arm out of the bathroom window you can almost touch the window of the house next door. It’s a three story house that has been home to many at some point—my aunt Beverly, my cousins Monique, Monica, and Montel, my mom, and for a short period of time, me. I used to be scared to go downstairs in the basement by myself. There was a huge life-size doll near the bottom of the steps with piercing eyes that always used to stare right at me—she’s gone now.
During most nights when all is calm you can hear the faint sounds of a police siren wailing as it zooms past the house. We always had to make sure to lock the double-bolted door, and only open the screen door for people we knew, after we looked through the peephole. These precautions may seem drastic to some, but it was—is what we’re used to. And although we took extra care before allowing someone into Grandma’s house, once you were in, you were in. Grandma’s house was the center for many family gatherings. I remember many of my aunts, cousins, and even a few neighborhood friends visiting Grandma’s house—sitting on the old, sturdy 1950s couch watching a Bears or Cubs game or when we would sit around the dining room table and play Trouble and then dominoes. Grandma or my mom would keep score, and I found out quickly that “the one with the pen…wins” as Grandma would say with a chuckle, especially when she was the one taking score.
I can still smell the scent of Grandma’s rice pudding and sweet potatoes. But you always had to be careful about eating the meat Grandma would cook. I’ve learned to steer clear of those dishes—One day she was in the kitchen cooking fish head stew, with the eyeballs still intact! Grandma doesn’t believe in letting things go to waste, so she’s known for cooking meat that most would consider road kill.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Literary Journalism Short Stories
These were pieces I wrote in a literary journalism class this past summer. They are short pieces that incorporate dialogue and descriptions of people, places and things.
The first piece was an assignment where I had to go out and find someone on campus at work...any person working and talk with them about their job while observing my surroundings, the person I talked to and what they were doing. Then, I had to go back to class and write a cohesive story (I was only given about 15 to 20 minutes) using dialogue from the notes I had taken and descriptions of the things I had observed. It was a challenge, but it was fun! Below is what I came up with.
THE PARKING POLICE
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I coyly asked trying to take bigger steps to keep up with Marty who, by the quickness of her pace, was on a mission.
“Uhh sure,” Marty hesitated, looking unsure of my motives for wanting to talk with her. Not many people choose to spark up a conversation with Marty, at least not a pleasant one. She spends her days…..
Once she realized I wasn’t on a secret mission to sabotage her ticketing frenzy, Marty perked up. She slowed her brisk pace to a leisure walk as we chatted about her work.
“I’ve been a parking enforcement officer for three years, and I really like my job!” She beamed. You could tell just how much Marty liked her job by the smile on her face.
Marty adjusted her glasses as she began walking further down the street inspecting cars. She stopped at a silver Honda SUV and intently studied its plate.
Indiana 353 NEH
She kept walking.
Marty squinted from the brightness of the sun, “I like meeting new and interesting people. Although, some people don’t like me,” she said with a chuckle.
“Don’t like” is an understatement, if you’ve ever been greeted by a small brown envelope, as I have, on your windshield it’s understood why Marty and all the other parking enforcement officers may not be on your list of favorite people.
“We work 10 hour shifts. From 6:30 to 4:30,” Said Marty “I patrol the same area. Sometimes I switch routes, but I walk around for 10 hours” Marty doesn’t seem to mind, she likes being outside.
_________________________________________________________________
The second piece I was asked to write also includes dialogue. Essentially, I was supposed to do the same thing as I had before, observe, take notes, and really describe the scene. The catch....I couldn't talk to any of the people I was observing. I was to be seen a not heard....a "fly on the wall."
For this particular writing assignment, I decided the park would be the best place to people watch and not look completely creepy! I chose a great day to go to the park. It was rather interesting...This too was a fun assignment. It's always fun to people watch, but it was even more exciting to observe people knowing I'd have to write a story afterward. Read my story below!
ADVENTURE HAS NO AGE
“Smack! Smack! Smack!”
“ah! Ah! Ah! smack! smack! Ah! ah!”
Nearby one of the shade trees in Freeman Lake five adult men in shorts, shirts and tennis shoes whack their way through a summer afternoon. Two hold shields and swords while three, shieldless, block the fake sword jabs with their hands.
“HA! You didn’t use your shield!” a guy with a long, red, braided ponytail triumphantly yells.
“Yeah I know! I’m out” remarks his friend. They all laugh and he steps back, kneeling to the ground, laying his sword gently on the grass. The guy with the ponytail continues sword fighting with the other three who apparently are a little bit better than their friend at saving themselves from imaginary death by sword.
“Damn it! You got me!” says another one of the sword fighters, who has been vigorously ducking, shifting, and blocking the red-head sword fighting champion’s sword.
The champion’s ponytail swings from side to side as he lunges toward his friends, thrusting his sword toward them and intercepting their meager attempts to stab him. Another warrior as fallen—his friend kneels to the ground and places his sword down. The red-head champ immediately focuses his attention on the remaining two.
“Smack! Smack! Smack!” Their adventure continues as they make believe sword fight until they grow tired of their own antics and take a break at the picnic table nearby.
****************
Further down the park just slightly away from the lakeshore 10 or so toddlers dart like chipmunks from one thing to the next—a swing set, a mini jungle gym, a slide, and a small multi-colored tunnel for climbing, but a blue shark on giant springs attracts the most attention from the little thrill seekers. The blue shark sways tenderly under the slight weight of the little girl rocking back and forth with a blissful look on her face. Others linger around waiting for their turn on the hydraulic shark.
“C’mon Jeremiah…Where are you? C’mon let’s go,” says an older black woman dressed in a floor length blue jean skirt and flowery blouse.
“Jeremiah, we’re leaving!” she continues. Jeremiah only slightly pays attention to the woman calling his name. He is too busy going down the slide. “One more slide, Okay Jeremiah?” she pleads.
Jeremiah ignores that request and goes up and down the slide a few more times.
“C’mon speed racer! He tries to get on everything,” she sighs to another woman who holds her child in her arms.
Jeremiah jumps off the slide and runs, directly, to the blue shark which garnered so much attention earlier. He jumps in the shark and sways aggressively making the shark jerk back and forth violently.
“Bye! Bye!” He yells to the woman who has been pleading with him to leave.
Seemingly at her wits end, the woman becomes a little more impatient and stern with Jeremiah. “Let’s go or next time you’re not going to be able to come here if you don’t come on right now!” she yells.
At the thought of not being able to come back, Jeremiah abruptly ends his ride on the great blue shark and runs toward the woman.
The shark isn’t lonely for long— a small child runs to it, jumps in and sways.
Two teenage girls approach the toddler playground and survey the area. They look like giants compared to the small children. One girl is wearing a black shirt and blue jeans, while her friend, who slightly resembles Little Red Riding Hood due to her taste in fashion, sports a floor length red coat. She’s obviously unaware of the heat wave that engulfs the park.
Deciding the multi-colored tunnel will provide the best thrill, Red Riding Hood climbs on top of the tunnel and walks slowly across it. Her friend seems uninterested by her idea of fun. Red Riding Hood whispers something to the girl in the black shirt and she immediately perks up and exclaims, “Okay fine, one last time!” They run like little toddlers to the now empty blue shark.
The girl in the black shirt, jumps in the shark and, like Jeremiah, aggressively jerks back and forth. Under her weight, the shark’s spring-like bounce fades and it grazes the ground.
As if the shark isn’t low enough already, Red Riding Hood joins her friend and eagerly jumps atop the shark. They giggle as the shark sways even more slowly.
Now bored with the shark, the girls jump off and run to the swings. Since there is no way they can fit in the specially made toddler swing, the girls sit on top of the swing seats. They swing back and forth a few times and then get off, as if, suddenly, they realize they’re too old for these toys. Then they’re off in search of their next adventure.
The first piece was an assignment where I had to go out and find someone on campus at work...any person working and talk with them about their job while observing my surroundings, the person I talked to and what they were doing. Then, I had to go back to class and write a cohesive story (I was only given about 15 to 20 minutes) using dialogue from the notes I had taken and descriptions of the things I had observed. It was a challenge, but it was fun! Below is what I came up with.
THE PARKING POLICE
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I coyly asked trying to take bigger steps to keep up with Marty who, by the quickness of her pace, was on a mission.
“Uhh sure,” Marty hesitated, looking unsure of my motives for wanting to talk with her. Not many people choose to spark up a conversation with Marty, at least not a pleasant one. She spends her days…..
Once she realized I wasn’t on a secret mission to sabotage her ticketing frenzy, Marty perked up. She slowed her brisk pace to a leisure walk as we chatted about her work.
“I’ve been a parking enforcement officer for three years, and I really like my job!” She beamed. You could tell just how much Marty liked her job by the smile on her face.
Marty adjusted her glasses as she began walking further down the street inspecting cars. She stopped at a silver Honda SUV and intently studied its plate.
Indiana 353 NEH
She kept walking.
Marty squinted from the brightness of the sun, “I like meeting new and interesting people. Although, some people don’t like me,” she said with a chuckle.
“Don’t like” is an understatement, if you’ve ever been greeted by a small brown envelope, as I have, on your windshield it’s understood why Marty and all the other parking enforcement officers may not be on your list of favorite people.
“We work 10 hour shifts. From 6:30 to 4:30,” Said Marty “I patrol the same area. Sometimes I switch routes, but I walk around for 10 hours” Marty doesn’t seem to mind, she likes being outside.
_________________________________________________________________
The second piece I was asked to write also includes dialogue. Essentially, I was supposed to do the same thing as I had before, observe, take notes, and really describe the scene. The catch....I couldn't talk to any of the people I was observing. I was to be seen a not heard....a "fly on the wall."
For this particular writing assignment, I decided the park would be the best place to people watch and not look completely creepy! I chose a great day to go to the park. It was rather interesting...This too was a fun assignment. It's always fun to people watch, but it was even more exciting to observe people knowing I'd have to write a story afterward. Read my story below!
ADVENTURE HAS NO AGE
“Smack! Smack! Smack!”
“ah! Ah! Ah! smack! smack! Ah! ah!”
Nearby one of the shade trees in Freeman Lake five adult men in shorts, shirts and tennis shoes whack their way through a summer afternoon. Two hold shields and swords while three, shieldless, block the fake sword jabs with their hands.
“HA! You didn’t use your shield!” a guy with a long, red, braided ponytail triumphantly yells.
“Yeah I know! I’m out” remarks his friend. They all laugh and he steps back, kneeling to the ground, laying his sword gently on the grass. The guy with the ponytail continues sword fighting with the other three who apparently are a little bit better than their friend at saving themselves from imaginary death by sword.
“Damn it! You got me!” says another one of the sword fighters, who has been vigorously ducking, shifting, and blocking the red-head sword fighting champion’s sword.
The champion’s ponytail swings from side to side as he lunges toward his friends, thrusting his sword toward them and intercepting their meager attempts to stab him. Another warrior as fallen—his friend kneels to the ground and places his sword down. The red-head champ immediately focuses his attention on the remaining two.
“Smack! Smack! Smack!” Their adventure continues as they make believe sword fight until they grow tired of their own antics and take a break at the picnic table nearby.
****************
Further down the park just slightly away from the lakeshore 10 or so toddlers dart like chipmunks from one thing to the next—a swing set, a mini jungle gym, a slide, and a small multi-colored tunnel for climbing, but a blue shark on giant springs attracts the most attention from the little thrill seekers. The blue shark sways tenderly under the slight weight of the little girl rocking back and forth with a blissful look on her face. Others linger around waiting for their turn on the hydraulic shark.
“C’mon Jeremiah…Where are you? C’mon let’s go,” says an older black woman dressed in a floor length blue jean skirt and flowery blouse.
“Jeremiah, we’re leaving!” she continues. Jeremiah only slightly pays attention to the woman calling his name. He is too busy going down the slide. “One more slide, Okay Jeremiah?” she pleads.
Jeremiah ignores that request and goes up and down the slide a few more times.
“C’mon speed racer! He tries to get on everything,” she sighs to another woman who holds her child in her arms.
Jeremiah jumps off the slide and runs, directly, to the blue shark which garnered so much attention earlier. He jumps in the shark and sways aggressively making the shark jerk back and forth violently.
“Bye! Bye!” He yells to the woman who has been pleading with him to leave.
Seemingly at her wits end, the woman becomes a little more impatient and stern with Jeremiah. “Let’s go or next time you’re not going to be able to come here if you don’t come on right now!” she yells.
At the thought of not being able to come back, Jeremiah abruptly ends his ride on the great blue shark and runs toward the woman.
The shark isn’t lonely for long— a small child runs to it, jumps in and sways.
Two teenage girls approach the toddler playground and survey the area. They look like giants compared to the small children. One girl is wearing a black shirt and blue jeans, while her friend, who slightly resembles Little Red Riding Hood due to her taste in fashion, sports a floor length red coat. She’s obviously unaware of the heat wave that engulfs the park.
Deciding the multi-colored tunnel will provide the best thrill, Red Riding Hood climbs on top of the tunnel and walks slowly across it. Her friend seems uninterested by her idea of fun. Red Riding Hood whispers something to the girl in the black shirt and she immediately perks up and exclaims, “Okay fine, one last time!” They run like little toddlers to the now empty blue shark.
The girl in the black shirt, jumps in the shark and, like Jeremiah, aggressively jerks back and forth. Under her weight, the shark’s spring-like bounce fades and it grazes the ground.
As if the shark isn’t low enough already, Red Riding Hood joins her friend and eagerly jumps atop the shark. They giggle as the shark sways even more slowly.
Now bored with the shark, the girls jump off and run to the swings. Since there is no way they can fit in the specially made toddler swing, the girls sit on top of the swing seats. They swing back and forth a few times and then get off, as if, suddenly, they realize they’re too old for these toys. Then they’re off in search of their next adventure.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Accepting Who You Are
This is a literary journalism piece I wrote several months ago about a transgendered person running a coffee shop. This isn't like a normal news article, as it reads more like a chapter from a novel....enjoy!
On this early summer morning, like many mornings, Rachel Jones busied herself, making coffee, cooking quiches, and preparing for the influx of regular customers who were sure to make an appearance in her Bloomington café. Dressed in a pink spaghetti strap shirt, burgundy skirt with ruffled ends, brown sandals, and an intricate ceramic butterfly necklace, Rachel greeted everyone who came into her café with a warm smile and a cheery “hello honey;” sometimes even calling the customers by name.
Even though this was my first formal visit, she treated me no differently. “How you doin honey,” Rachel said with a slight southern accent. Her pink lined lips curved into a smile and her slightly curled red hair bounced as she walked from behind the counter toward the couch. Her voice was slightly hoarse because she’d been yelling and cheering the previous night at a roller girl’s event.
Her glasses sat rigidly on her face and you could see a hint of nearly perfectly applied black eyeliner that brought out the color of her eyes. Rachel was pretty used to being interviewed, so she leaned back on the blue couch with ease, crossed her legs exposing the burgundy polish on her toenails, and waited patiently for me to begin questioning her. Many would shudder at the thought of divulging personal information to random people, but not Rachel – she’s a people’s person, always has been. When she was in sales, the only complaint was that she was too nice. Her boss suggested she be more of a dick. But she couldn’t. Rachel wouldn’t sell someone something just for the sake of making a sale. She cares about people, so when Rachel was finally ready to reveal her true self to the world, she was fearful of rejection and ridicule from the very thing she loved—people.
She knew at a young age that she wasn’t like everyone else but she hid the truth for the majority of her adult life. When she was a young child, Rachel was caught wearing a dress. After being scolded for dressing in women’s clothing, she made sure to hide that part of herself from the world. How could she reveal her identity dilemma – did she want to outright defy God? Of course not. Her religious beliefs wouldn’t permit her to do that, and she had realistic doubts that the small country town of Nashville, Indiana would welcome Rachel with open arms. So, she did the only thing she knew to do—hid, repressed, and fought the truth.
She knew it’d be easier to live as a man, as Eric—as she had been for so many years of her life; and really, who in their right mind would choose to live as a transgendered person? If she had a choice, why wouldn’t she choose to live her life as Eric, with her ex-wife and three children whom she loves dearly, a life that people would readily accept because it is the “norm?" But the fact of the matter is, Rachel didn’t have a choice—she is who she is, and she finally resolved that she wouldn’t hide who she is anymore.
This resolve didn’t come without consequence. Rachel divorced her wife and quit her job as a salesman—if she wasn’t going to hide anymore that meant at work too. She wanted to be Rachel full time, except of course when going to her kids’ school functions. There was no sense in subjecting her children to the same unnecessary ridicule and rejection she was sure to face herself.
After failed attempts at finding a job, even after applying at a pretty liberal coffee shop, Rachel saw no other choice but to move to Bloomington a university town reasonably tolerant of difference and start her own business where she could be herself and allow others the same privilege without limitation.
As we transitioned, no pun intended, to her life outside of the café, she talked about the progress she’s made toward self-acceptance—and the bumps she’s encountered along the way.
“I went bra shopping the other day at— what’s the name of that store – is it called Macy’s?”
I nodded my head. The salespeople in Macy’s weren’t winning employee of the month awards anytime soon; they were reluctant to help Rachel because she is a man. It didn’t matter anyway— they didn’t have what she was looking for so Rachel went to Victoria’s Secret. They too weren’t eager to help her.
“Maybe it would be easier if I was passable, but I’m not, and I know that.” Rachel knows that people can immediately tell she’s a man. She stands at about 5’11” and her slightly broad, muscular shoulders and arms reveal her days as a football player. Although she’s dressed in a skirt and a spaghetti strap shirt now, her somewhat chiseled face and square jawbone further expose her masculinity. That doesn’t stop her from wishing her boobs were real and her voice was more womanly as she looked for a bra with a thin strap so she could wear spaghetti strap shirts without the unsightly bra strap showing so much.
I glanced down at my own chest, understanding how difficult it is to find a bra with thin straps, especially since I don’t belong to the infamous itty bitty tittie committee—I felt Rachel’s bra-shopping plight.
Today though, her straps were clear and just barely showed under her pink spaghetti straps.
Rachel realized when she first started going out in public as a woman that she was a little over the top with her platinum blond hair and big boobs. Choosing to venture out of Indiana for fear of being recognized, she explored Louisville as Rachel, but she looked more like someone you’d find on a street corner than someone trying to come into her own as a woman. Since her first outings as a woman, Rachel has scaled back a lot thanks to her close friends and ex-wife.
Rachel is pretty open about her lifestyle but behind that brave and inviting facade she is still struggling with self-acceptance. She leaned in close and with a faint hoarse whisper, recalled a time when she wanted to take ballet lessons, as Rachel of course. She wanted to learn how to move more femininely. When she had called the instructor to tell her she was interested in taking the class, the instructor gladly welcomed her; but when the night came to go to the dance lessons, Rachel was too scared to get out of the car and walk into class because of what people would think and say.
Rachel was interrupted from her introspection on self-acceptance by a customer. She immediately got up from the couch and greeted the petite older woman and a small boy about seven years old, much as she greeted me—with a warm smile and a cheery “hello honey.” The little boy, somewhat confused yet intrigued by Rachel and her appearance, stood close by the woman’s side and curiously peered up at Rachel as the older woman formally introduced them to each other.
I smiled at the little boy's hesitation and obvious confusion by Rachel's appearance. As Rachel spoke softly to him, he moved slightly away from the woman's side and looked a little more comfortable with his surroundings.
In that moment, I had an ephipany. I realized something it takes most a lifetime to learn if at all, and I knew after listening to Rachel's story it'd taken her most of her life to come to this realization too. Once you're comfortable in your own skin and accept yourself -- flaws and all others will too.
On this early summer morning, like many mornings, Rachel Jones busied herself, making coffee, cooking quiches, and preparing for the influx of regular customers who were sure to make an appearance in her Bloomington café. Dressed in a pink spaghetti strap shirt, burgundy skirt with ruffled ends, brown sandals, and an intricate ceramic butterfly necklace, Rachel greeted everyone who came into her café with a warm smile and a cheery “hello honey;” sometimes even calling the customers by name.
Even though this was my first formal visit, she treated me no differently. “How you doin honey,” Rachel said with a slight southern accent. Her pink lined lips curved into a smile and her slightly curled red hair bounced as she walked from behind the counter toward the couch. Her voice was slightly hoarse because she’d been yelling and cheering the previous night at a roller girl’s event.
Her glasses sat rigidly on her face and you could see a hint of nearly perfectly applied black eyeliner that brought out the color of her eyes. Rachel was pretty used to being interviewed, so she leaned back on the blue couch with ease, crossed her legs exposing the burgundy polish on her toenails, and waited patiently for me to begin questioning her. Many would shudder at the thought of divulging personal information to random people, but not Rachel – she’s a people’s person, always has been. When she was in sales, the only complaint was that she was too nice. Her boss suggested she be more of a dick. But she couldn’t. Rachel wouldn’t sell someone something just for the sake of making a sale. She cares about people, so when Rachel was finally ready to reveal her true self to the world, she was fearful of rejection and ridicule from the very thing she loved—people.
She knew at a young age that she wasn’t like everyone else but she hid the truth for the majority of her adult life. When she was a young child, Rachel was caught wearing a dress. After being scolded for dressing in women’s clothing, she made sure to hide that part of herself from the world. How could she reveal her identity dilemma – did she want to outright defy God? Of course not. Her religious beliefs wouldn’t permit her to do that, and she had realistic doubts that the small country town of Nashville, Indiana would welcome Rachel with open arms. So, she did the only thing she knew to do—hid, repressed, and fought the truth.
She knew it’d be easier to live as a man, as Eric—as she had been for so many years of her life; and really, who in their right mind would choose to live as a transgendered person? If she had a choice, why wouldn’t she choose to live her life as Eric, with her ex-wife and three children whom she loves dearly, a life that people would readily accept because it is the “norm?" But the fact of the matter is, Rachel didn’t have a choice—she is who she is, and she finally resolved that she wouldn’t hide who she is anymore.
This resolve didn’t come without consequence. Rachel divorced her wife and quit her job as a salesman—if she wasn’t going to hide anymore that meant at work too. She wanted to be Rachel full time, except of course when going to her kids’ school functions. There was no sense in subjecting her children to the same unnecessary ridicule and rejection she was sure to face herself.
After failed attempts at finding a job, even after applying at a pretty liberal coffee shop, Rachel saw no other choice but to move to Bloomington a university town reasonably tolerant of difference and start her own business where she could be herself and allow others the same privilege without limitation.
As we transitioned, no pun intended, to her life outside of the café, she talked about the progress she’s made toward self-acceptance—and the bumps she’s encountered along the way.
“I went bra shopping the other day at— what’s the name of that store – is it called Macy’s?”
I nodded my head. The salespeople in Macy’s weren’t winning employee of the month awards anytime soon; they were reluctant to help Rachel because she is a man. It didn’t matter anyway— they didn’t have what she was looking for so Rachel went to Victoria’s Secret. They too weren’t eager to help her.
“Maybe it would be easier if I was passable, but I’m not, and I know that.” Rachel knows that people can immediately tell she’s a man. She stands at about 5’11” and her slightly broad, muscular shoulders and arms reveal her days as a football player. Although she’s dressed in a skirt and a spaghetti strap shirt now, her somewhat chiseled face and square jawbone further expose her masculinity. That doesn’t stop her from wishing her boobs were real and her voice was more womanly as she looked for a bra with a thin strap so she could wear spaghetti strap shirts without the unsightly bra strap showing so much.
I glanced down at my own chest, understanding how difficult it is to find a bra with thin straps, especially since I don’t belong to the infamous itty bitty tittie committee—I felt Rachel’s bra-shopping plight.
Today though, her straps were clear and just barely showed under her pink spaghetti straps.
Rachel realized when she first started going out in public as a woman that she was a little over the top with her platinum blond hair and big boobs. Choosing to venture out of Indiana for fear of being recognized, she explored Louisville as Rachel, but she looked more like someone you’d find on a street corner than someone trying to come into her own as a woman. Since her first outings as a woman, Rachel has scaled back a lot thanks to her close friends and ex-wife.
Rachel is pretty open about her lifestyle but behind that brave and inviting facade she is still struggling with self-acceptance. She leaned in close and with a faint hoarse whisper, recalled a time when she wanted to take ballet lessons, as Rachel of course. She wanted to learn how to move more femininely. When she had called the instructor to tell her she was interested in taking the class, the instructor gladly welcomed her; but when the night came to go to the dance lessons, Rachel was too scared to get out of the car and walk into class because of what people would think and say.
Rachel was interrupted from her introspection on self-acceptance by a customer. She immediately got up from the couch and greeted the petite older woman and a small boy about seven years old, much as she greeted me—with a warm smile and a cheery “hello honey.” The little boy, somewhat confused yet intrigued by Rachel and her appearance, stood close by the woman’s side and curiously peered up at Rachel as the older woman formally introduced them to each other.
I smiled at the little boy's hesitation and obvious confusion by Rachel's appearance. As Rachel spoke softly to him, he moved slightly away from the woman's side and looked a little more comfortable with his surroundings.
In that moment, I had an ephipany. I realized something it takes most a lifetime to learn if at all, and I knew after listening to Rachel's story it'd taken her most of her life to come to this realization too. Once you're comfortable in your own skin and accept yourself -- flaws and all others will too.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Marching by Faith
This is a literary journalism piece I wrote several months ago about a transgendered person running a coffee shop. This isn't like a normal news article, as it reads more like a chapter from a novel....enjoy!
It was just two days before Christmas, and a group of church members planned to gather at 8:15 that Sunday. The air was filled with a sense of excitement— a Holy presence that kept the church members warm in the cold. Yes, they had been faithful servants to the Lord— doing His will, witnessing, and spreading God’s Love— and for this He was pouring out His blessings on His sheep. This elation didn’t escape the Pastor of the church—O.C. Jones Sr. was equally filled with joy and with good reason. Although he was a humble man, he couldn’t help but feel delighted by what New Hope Missionary Baptist Church had accomplished in such a short amount of time.
In 1984, just six years before, the church was nothing more than a Prayer Band— a group of people coming together to pray and worship God. Pastor Jones was in constant prayer with God about the direction of his life, and in September he had been moved, inspired to embark on a mission—changing New Hope Prayer Band into New Hope Missionary Baptist Church. He was sure God was directing him. There was no room for doubt or fear in his mind. This task was like no other—it was of a higher order.
Pastor Jones and his family were granted a release from their church to begin organizing New Hope. A Resolution document was drawn up and signed by the Missionary Baptists Churches’ Council that listed the seven charter members of the church. With this Resolution document the seven had gone from being a prayer band to an official church:
…Be it known among the saints of God that this assembly shall be known and called by the name of, “New Hope Missionary Baptist Church.” Which (is) was duly organized in the city of Radcliff, Kentucky this second day of November A.D. in the year of our Lord, Nineteen-hundred and Eighty four.
Indeed Pastor Jones had much to be delighted about.
The cloudy winter morning didn’t dampen the mood of the 20 church members as the brisk cold air enveloped them. They smiled and were filled with happiness as they trekked along the road bundled up in their warmest winter gear. This was not only the Sabbath Day, but a day to give extra thanks to God for allowing New Hope to prosper. As the members marched excitedly down Lincoln Trail Boulevard holding hands, singing hymns, praying and praising God for His many blessings, they kept their destination clearly in sight.
The one hour march, some 2.5 miles, would lead the congregation right to1591 Hill Street, the site of their new church building. They had trusted in the Lord and leaned on him and within six years, the congregation had grown from seven to about 200 members. As they marched in the cold of that December morning, the atmosphere was one of hope, excitement, joy, and accomplishment. Even though the sun was masked by the clouds, the light of Jesus Christ shone through.
We’ve come this far by faith. Leaning on the Lord…
Almost nineteen years later, Pastor Jones sits comfortably on his chocolate brown micro suede sofa with a remote in his hand. A beige bandage covers part of his right hand hiding the stitches from the labor of mounting his new flat screen television above the electric fireplace. His black hair shows just a few sprinkles of gray and his nicely kempt salt and pepper moustache and dark framed stylish glasses conceal his 65 years of life. It’s been almost two decades since the church marched to their new sanctuary and nearly 25 since the church was organized. He taps the remote lightly on his leg as he remembers the day he and members of his congregation marched to the church.
“It was a cold morning but we saw in it the move of God and how He had blessed us and brought us in a period of six years. We moved into that church by faith.
It was a joyous time— we sang old hymns and we were singing and praying as we went.
When we arrived on the steps of the new church we asked that God would bless us and that His will would be done in the ministry of that church, and then we went inside and we had our first service in the church. I remember preaching about having God in the midst of us and blessing us.”
Who would have thought a small church such as New Hope would grow so rapidly? The church is nestled right on the edge of town where Radcliff and the military base of Ft. Knox intersect. Pastor Jones knew from his experience and time in the military that many only stay in an area for a short while, on average four years. With the unpredictable life and constant change of schedule and duty station of soldiers and their families how could the church prosper and build up its membership? With the majority of the congregation being military there were plenty of naysayers regarding the prosperity of the church, but Pastor Jones didn’t have to wonder or worry; he knew God had a plan and it wasn’t by luck or coincidence New Hope had risen so quickly—it was God’s will.
Trusting in his holy word, He’s never failed me yet…
In 1989, a year before the march to Hill Street would take place, the congregation, which had been meeting in a small, old, white, cobblestone building, decided to purchase property to build the new sanctuary. The building committee scoured the area and settled on five sites, finally deciding to purchase the property on Hill Street—very true to its name. The nearly four acres of land sit atop a small hill surrounded mostly by trees and dirt. An apartment complex and trailer park neighbors the church, and across the street is a small housing area. The land was purchased on July 6, 1989, and the blueprints for the building were submitted to the Kentucky Department of Building Codes in November.
As the construction for the new church was underway, Pastor Jones visited the land in anticipation of one day soon being able to worship there.
“We used to walk the land and sometimes sit and watch as they built it,” Pastor Jones remembers, his deep rolling voice that always seems as if he’s in deep thought is filled with sparkle as he relives those times in his mind.
The new church, once completed, would be a 6,000 square foot brown three-level brick building complete with a basement which would later serve as the church fellowship hall and a balcony to accommodate the overflow of Sunday morning saints. The new sanctuary could accommodate over 400 worshippers, a far cry from the three-room cobblestone building where the congregation had been worshipping.
He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t wait for the new sanctuary. Sis Juanita Marshall, the church secretary and former member of New Hope, remembers as if it were yesterday walking the empty land before the church was built. “It was so much excitement. You know, we used to come everyday? Rev. Marshall and I we used to come around here everyday just looking at this barren land and saying one day our church is going to be there.”
And on December 23, 1990, it was. When Pastor Jones and his congregation entered into the warmth of their new sanctuary to praise God, he took as his topic Luke 2:6-7, “Is there room for the Redeemer?” He preached a heartfelt sermon, his voice echoing throughout the freshly painted walls of the sanctuary. With Christmas just around the corner, this message had a two-fold meaning; during the festive holiday season, had they made room for Him in their lives? Was there room in their new edifice for the Redeemer?
Indeed there was plenty of room for the Redeemer in their lives during Christmas and in the new church. This was evident in the continuous and rapid growth of membership. Within two years of moving to the new building, New Hope had 800 members.
Pastor Jones smiles with his eyes and his face is filled with contentment as he remembers just how quickly New Hope grew.
Although the fickle nature of a military community has reduced the once overflowing congregation to 450, Pastor Jones knows that if he continues to trust and follow God New Hope will continue to help in saving souls for Christ.
He stops tapping the remote control, leans his head back slightly, and appears to be in deep thought. His deep rolling voice echoes softly as he begins to speak.
“It’s quite humbling to know that God would use me in his work. I have no church. I simply yield myself to the Lord and am at His disposal. Now, I remain humble because God could have chosen anyone to do what I’m doing. But he didn’t—he chose me, and for this I’m grateful.”
Oh, can’t turn around, we’ve come this far by faith.
In 1984, just six years before, the church was nothing more than a Prayer Band— a group of people coming together to pray and worship God. Pastor Jones was in constant prayer with God about the direction of his life, and in September he had been moved, inspired to embark on a mission—changing New Hope Prayer Band into New Hope Missionary Baptist Church. He was sure God was directing him. There was no room for doubt or fear in his mind. This task was like no other—it was of a higher order.
Pastor Jones and his family were granted a release from their church to begin organizing New Hope. A Resolution document was drawn up and signed by the Missionary Baptists Churches’ Council that listed the seven charter members of the church. With this Resolution document the seven had gone from being a prayer band to an official church:
…Be it known among the saints of God that this assembly shall be known and called by the name of, “New Hope Missionary Baptist Church.” Which (is) was duly organized in the city of Radcliff, Kentucky this second day of November A.D. in the year of our Lord, Nineteen-hundred and Eighty four.
Indeed Pastor Jones had much to be delighted about.
The cloudy winter morning didn’t dampen the mood of the 20 church members as the brisk cold air enveloped them. They smiled and were filled with happiness as they trekked along the road bundled up in their warmest winter gear. This was not only the Sabbath Day, but a day to give extra thanks to God for allowing New Hope to prosper. As the members marched excitedly down Lincoln Trail Boulevard holding hands, singing hymns, praying and praising God for His many blessings, they kept their destination clearly in sight.
The one hour march, some 2.5 miles, would lead the congregation right to1591 Hill Street, the site of their new church building. They had trusted in the Lord and leaned on him and within six years, the congregation had grown from seven to about 200 members. As they marched in the cold of that December morning, the atmosphere was one of hope, excitement, joy, and accomplishment. Even though the sun was masked by the clouds, the light of Jesus Christ shone through.
We’ve come this far by faith. Leaning on the Lord…
Almost nineteen years later, Pastor Jones sits comfortably on his chocolate brown micro suede sofa with a remote in his hand. A beige bandage covers part of his right hand hiding the stitches from the labor of mounting his new flat screen television above the electric fireplace. His black hair shows just a few sprinkles of gray and his nicely kempt salt and pepper moustache and dark framed stylish glasses conceal his 65 years of life. It’s been almost two decades since the church marched to their new sanctuary and nearly 25 since the church was organized. He taps the remote lightly on his leg as he remembers the day he and members of his congregation marched to the church.
“It was a cold morning but we saw in it the move of God and how He had blessed us and brought us in a period of six years. We moved into that church by faith.
It was a joyous time— we sang old hymns and we were singing and praying as we went.
When we arrived on the steps of the new church we asked that God would bless us and that His will would be done in the ministry of that church, and then we went inside and we had our first service in the church. I remember preaching about having God in the midst of us and blessing us.”
Who would have thought a small church such as New Hope would grow so rapidly? The church is nestled right on the edge of town where Radcliff and the military base of Ft. Knox intersect. Pastor Jones knew from his experience and time in the military that many only stay in an area for a short while, on average four years. With the unpredictable life and constant change of schedule and duty station of soldiers and their families how could the church prosper and build up its membership? With the majority of the congregation being military there were plenty of naysayers regarding the prosperity of the church, but Pastor Jones didn’t have to wonder or worry; he knew God had a plan and it wasn’t by luck or coincidence New Hope had risen so quickly—it was God’s will.
Trusting in his holy word, He’s never failed me yet…
In 1989, a year before the march to Hill Street would take place, the congregation, which had been meeting in a small, old, white, cobblestone building, decided to purchase property to build the new sanctuary. The building committee scoured the area and settled on five sites, finally deciding to purchase the property on Hill Street—very true to its name. The nearly four acres of land sit atop a small hill surrounded mostly by trees and dirt. An apartment complex and trailer park neighbors the church, and across the street is a small housing area. The land was purchased on July 6, 1989, and the blueprints for the building were submitted to the Kentucky Department of Building Codes in November.
As the construction for the new church was underway, Pastor Jones visited the land in anticipation of one day soon being able to worship there.
“We used to walk the land and sometimes sit and watch as they built it,” Pastor Jones remembers, his deep rolling voice that always seems as if he’s in deep thought is filled with sparkle as he relives those times in his mind.
The new church, once completed, would be a 6,000 square foot brown three-level brick building complete with a basement which would later serve as the church fellowship hall and a balcony to accommodate the overflow of Sunday morning saints. The new sanctuary could accommodate over 400 worshippers, a far cry from the three-room cobblestone building where the congregation had been worshipping.
He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t wait for the new sanctuary. Sis Juanita Marshall, the church secretary and former member of New Hope, remembers as if it were yesterday walking the empty land before the church was built. “It was so much excitement. You know, we used to come everyday? Rev. Marshall and I we used to come around here everyday just looking at this barren land and saying one day our church is going to be there.”
And on December 23, 1990, it was. When Pastor Jones and his congregation entered into the warmth of their new sanctuary to praise God, he took as his topic Luke 2:6-7, “Is there room for the Redeemer?” He preached a heartfelt sermon, his voice echoing throughout the freshly painted walls of the sanctuary. With Christmas just around the corner, this message had a two-fold meaning; during the festive holiday season, had they made room for Him in their lives? Was there room in their new edifice for the Redeemer?
Indeed there was plenty of room for the Redeemer in their lives during Christmas and in the new church. This was evident in the continuous and rapid growth of membership. Within two years of moving to the new building, New Hope had 800 members.
Pastor Jones smiles with his eyes and his face is filled with contentment as he remembers just how quickly New Hope grew.
Although the fickle nature of a military community has reduced the once overflowing congregation to 450, Pastor Jones knows that if he continues to trust and follow God New Hope will continue to help in saving souls for Christ.
He stops tapping the remote control, leans his head back slightly, and appears to be in deep thought. His deep rolling voice echoes softly as he begins to speak.
“It’s quite humbling to know that God would use me in his work. I have no church. I simply yield myself to the Lord and am at His disposal. Now, I remain humble because God could have chosen anyone to do what I’m doing. But he didn’t—he chose me, and for this I’m grateful.”
Oh, can’t turn around, we’ve come this far by faith.
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