sh'asani eisha, sh'hechianu

Hebrew for: Thank you, God, for having made me a woman.

I've never wanted to be a boy and certainly not a man. I have female friends who wanted to be boys so they could play the sports that they were prohibited to play before Title 9 (that tells you a bit about my age). I was athletic as a child, but enjoyed field hockey, gymnastics, kickball, hiking, tennis, and was always the first picked in PE for square dancing. Later, when I became enamored with modern dance, that "sport," and the cross-training around it, consumed me. If I had been a boy, I would have had an even greater challenge convincing my parents that I wanted to major in dance in college and make a career out of dance. Sh'asani eisha, sh'hechianu.

I've had other female friends who have been fascinated by male genitalia. Not me! Such a sensitive piece of paraphernalia to be carrying on the outside of our bodies, I can imagine the pain of getting hit or the humiliation when sexual urges are so blatantly revealed for all to see. Even the ability to urinate standing up never interested me. I’m not sure why, because in many situations it is more convenient and hygienic to pee standing. Maybe my lack of interest is because I used to be so disgusted by my brothers’ distance contests, or the perpetual poor aim of many men, or maybe it was just because I was made a woman and I am biologically content with God’s design. Now, the Urinelle, a urination funnel for women, gives us the option to avoid unsanitary sitting conditions as well as save our shoes and bad knees from the squatting option. Therefore, I have options if I should change my mind.

I used to think the allure of the male lure was due to the power that society attributed to those who tucked away such an organ. Women didn’t really want the appendage, but wanted the benefits that came with. I believed that until I heard about “packing.” Last night, I went to a karaoke bar and watched two female-to-male transvestites, accessorized right down to the crotch. One was dressed in a Sean Penn kind-of-way, the other in a Broke Back Mountain look, both with facial hair and well defined forearms. One is quite renowned in the bar scene, but was no more convincing to me than the images of Steves and Maryannes in Tipping the Velvet (great book by the way). The other had me convinced until she was “outted” by the DJ. So there are women who really do want to cup their crotch with purpose and Michael Jackson bravado, women who may really want a (and here I resist my usual jargon for male genitalia)… between their legs. Thank you God, for having made me a woman!

Today, I attended my first Argentinean Tango lesson. This class is taught at a dance studio that advertises “Out Dancing,” ballroom dance lessons and parties for the GLBT community. Although most of the men in the class were gay, the traditional male/female coupling was arranged; the men were leaders, the women followers. I rotated into the arms of an attractive, silver-haired, self-professed gay man who told me he usually follows. We were taught a tricky weight change step that the “man” initiates. The idea is to guide your partner into a rhythm of parallel steps and then, when you are ready, subtly shift your leading weight to the opposite foot while your partner stays with “her” weight on the foot you led her to. Then, surreptitiously, the leader steps diagonally on the opposing foot and the couple is now dancing with opposites. When first learning something like this, the mind is quite busy, rocking back and forth in a methodical rhythm until the leader feels ready to try this little dancin’ game. Ginger Rogers use to say that female ballroom dancers have to be better than males because they dance backwards and in heals, but today, I had the easy job, I just had to listen to cues from my partner and we all know that listening to subtle cues is a female skill that comes quite natural. Thank God, I was made a woman. Sh'asani eisha, sh'hechianu.

I'm Not There

Witness the Day

Grapefruit fresh, the day
begins. Thirty killed somewhere
in Nairobi, but

that was yesterday
and I only hear the rain,
like a distant flame

diluting daily
news. I catch whiffs of charcoal,
last night’s burnt chicken

But how can I witness
when I’m not there?

I Am From

A friend was seeking writing prompts for the month of January. I gave her the following: Into what community were you born and how were you received, and by whom? I am looking into some family history, particularly my great grandmother Mamie Pearce King who was a Baptist missionary on an Arapaho Indian reservation. This poem came as a result of reading a poem in her scrapbook titled "Women of God" by E. Rinehart *. The poem was written at the turn of the century. The photo is Mamie Pearce King about 1912 after typhoid fever.

I was born into a circle of writers:
Virginia, Sappho, Emily…
through a dream, they welcomed me,
called me to pick up the pen.

I was born of Nancy, variant of Ann,
Hebrew for Grace, a wife, a daughter, a duty
Nancy, marked by devotion to man.
I was born of a woman, intent.

I was born to a circle of grandmothers,
Grace, Mary, Mamie, and Carol Joy.
Born of a virtue, a virgin, a missionary, and a song,
how sweet the sound traversing years, calling me, calling me.

I was born from Women of God, in mission fields,
circuit riders, sisters, lighthouse
keepers of the Word, stars of the sea,
Mary May, ever enduring, Mamie, she.

Mother may I, too, be called,
be merry, brisk and blithe, defined
as mirthful in the sun of righteousness, 

shining away from secrecy and shame.


Women of God, of uncertain origin,
mothers of mine, calling me.
Be swift to go, the doors are open wide.
The times are full of promise, so

follow the flow of the tide
sail out on the deep, broad seas
let your heart be brave, mothers sing to me
A mighty work is waiting.*

I was born of divine women, adored
virtuous, star women, original women
women derived, I am a woman wishing
light, song, joie de vivre, a woman wishing

fearless response to her call, I am
a woman intent on wishing you,
a woman, a new definition,
wishing you, a woman, a new name.

How shall I call you?