Month: December 2023

My son came for Christmas this year. We sat on the front stoop in the warm sunshine (I live in Asheville, NC). I don’t remember how we got onto the topic of transgender women on sports teams. I said I thought it was unfair to the biological cis women on the team because a transgender woman was naturally stronger than a cis woman and placed any opposing team without a transgender woman at a disadvantage.

He said, “How about the basketball player Yao Ming who’s unusually tall? Is that unfair to other teams?”

“No,” I said.

“How is that any different from a trans woman being stronger than a biological woman?”

Uneven abilities among team members is common

I hadn’t thought of that. There are plenty examples of uneven abilities among same biologically gendered team members. Someone might be bigger and stronger than another team member. Just look at football. Defensive linemen are big heavy guys unlike the lighter physiques of quarter backs. Is that unfair? No, of course not. So how is a transgender woman being stronger than a cis woman any different my son wanted to know?

I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t.

Then we talked about J.K. Rowling and her beliefs regarding gender. I admitted I sympathized with her statement that a trans woman isn’t a woman biologically because she doesn’t have a uterus and can’t get pregnant. Same with a trans man. He can’t impregnate anyone.

“But does that make her any less a woman?” my son wanted to know.

“You know the character in the animated film WALL-E? What gender is that robot?” he asked.

“Male.”

“Right, and he has a girlfriend who you would call female, but do either of them have genitals?”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. No.”

In other words, gender identity has nothing to do with genitals. Not having a uterus or penis doesn’t make you any less female or male.

Why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity?

That conversation made me reconsider a book review I’d written about a transgender woman. In the book she resorts to violence to protect herself and her staff. Then, a transgender man suddenly becomes self-confident once he commits murder. In my review I wrote “So, violence makes the man?” My son said no. It worked for those two characters in the book. But why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity? Who says women can’t be strong and protect themselves?

It was a mind-altering conversation I was grateful to have, especially with my son who I hadn’t seen in person for a year and a half. It made me realize how important getting together in person more often with him is to say nothing of appreciating more deeply gender identity. That someone would be willing to change their body to conform with who they are as a person despite the prejudice out there–that’s a strong conviction. It doesn’t put any team at an advantage or disadvantage.

I vowed to visit my son sooner next year. Thanks for having that conversation with me, Ian. I love you.

I did not want to paint a picture of a cow. That’s what everyone else at our office holiday party was painting. Not because I’m not a team player; I am. That’s important to me. But you should never underestimate your talents. The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle. So, I did something else.

Each canvas lined up on either side of the table had the same drawing of a cow wearing a Santa hat outlined in pencil. I took my seat and turned my pallet sideways, then upside down, trying to get that silly cow out of my head. What would I paint? I didn’t know, so I picked up my brush and started mixing colors.

The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle.

We had a paper plate with daubs of six hues to choose from—burnt umber, black, white, red, brown, and dark green. No blue, so I was kind of stuck. But not entirely. I could still mix the burnt umber with the red for a reddish orange. Or mix the burnt umber with the green.

As soon as I started mixing and painting, I felt at ease. I hadn’t painted in years. The brush felt familiar and applying the paint strokes satisfying, but a twinge of guilt insisted that maybe I was missing out on the communal activity. But no. I was participating, just doing my own thing. No cooperation was necessary, so it was okay to be the renegade.

I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair.

My colleagues dutifully followed the instructions while the professional led the class. I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair. He needed a background. I love paintings with depth of field and perspective. They’re full of space and possibility. It puts the subject in context and creates a story.

Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next. Some were executed with greater skill than others. Two colleagues went rogue in their own fashion. Instead of painting white fur on Santa’s hat, one of my colleagues painted green fur and inscribed her kids’ names on the painting. Another painted an aqua colored hat and jacket. “To hang in my bathroom,” she said.

Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next.

When my teammates saw my painting they said, “Polly went really rogue!” A young couple from another party walked around our table and when they saw mine, the woman’s face lit up. “I love this!”

I was quite pleased. “You can have it if you want.”

“I’ll pay you,” she said.

I felt flattered. “No, please, take it.”

My immediate supervisor smiled and hugged me around the shoulder. “See, never underestimate your talents.” I signed the painting and gave it to the woman.

Here I was afraid of being perceived by others as a rule-breaker instead of a team player, especially by the CEO. She was there too, painting her own Santa Cow. What if I gave her the impression that I can’t follow directions and don’t listen? It’s possible she thought nothing of the kind. By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.

By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.

All too often I underestimate my talent, but I shouldn’t. My creative outpouring might make even just one person happy. Any happiness we can inspire in others is never a waste. I’m glad I went rogue. In so doing, I unveiled a little gem that brought joy to someone’s life.

Last week I spent two and a half days writing in a tiny cabin in the woods next to a small waterfall  at the foot of a mountain. The cabin had no internet or cell phone service. I was in writer heaven.

No scrolling through Twitter, no checking emails, no looking up other writers’ articles on the Internet. I got so much done and made a breakthrough in my memoir, reorganizing and cutting chapters I loved but that were not zeroed in on the theme. Being alone gave me the freedom to record myself reading chapters in a loud voice into the mic rather than lowering my voice as I do when my husband is around so as not to be overheard. I listened to the playback and made edits I could hear but not see on the page, chapter after chapter to my heart’s content.

It was a lesson in how easily I become distracted by engaging with social media.

After my fruitful time in the cabin, I vowed that before I tweet and read email I will write first. The consequence is that after a week of this practice, I’ve hardly participated on Twitter at all. Substack announcements from other writers, blog posts, published stories and essay links on social media—I’ve not read them, and I’ve deleted all but the most important emails from journals that piled up in an endless stream in my inbox. Yes, I’m more in tune with my own writing, which is what I want to be, hoping to produce words that will get published and connect with readers, but there’s this downside: I miss my writing community.

Benefits to this time alone in the woods

There were benefits to this time alone in the woods with nothing to do but write for 48 hours, but there were drawbacks as well, one being my obsessive tendencies and the inability to moderate them. Such an existence is not sustainable nor is it practical. That’s valuable information.

I realize now that I need to find a balance between writing with no distractions and living an engaged writer’s life on social media that is sustainable.

I vow to engage in social media and limit myself to reading one author linked story per day and responding to as many Tweets that a 10 minute scroll session allows. I’ll scroll three times a day. That’s it! I’ll let you know how it goes.

If you have a problem balancing your social media time and writing time, I’d love to hear what works for you!