Let Me Tell You

They send me a message because, “God told them to”, and “they love me”.

Are we listening to the same God?

The message always reads something along the lines of, “You have been on my heart recently, and I want you to see the good God can do in your life, if you let Him”. There is often a sermon or Bible verse attached to a rambling message about my misdeeds; I wonder why they choose to use a sacred text to perpetuate hate. They call it compassion; I call it oppression.

I read the scripture. I listen to the sermon. Sometimes multiple times. I respond in as much kindness as possible. But I hate them.

I wonder at their accusations. Misled. Misguided. In need of prayer. The sins of my mother. Where was my father? I turned against Christ. Debauchery with the Devil.

Sign me up, Sinner, at least the Devil doesn’t mind getting kinky.

They all have strong opinions on my sex life. On my “struggle with same sex attraction”.

Why am I always a lesbian in this narrative? Where is my sexual fluidity? Has my gender taken the day off?

They never ask, but only assume. If they do ask, the questions route me back to a conversion story I want no part of. Different women are in my bed each night; I wonder where they’re finding all of these trans positive, sexually fluid women.

Sign me up, Sinner, sexual freedom is where it’s at.

They speak at me. I speak at them. No one listens. No one wants to change. I get angry. They pray. I snap. They tell me they don’t want to convert me. I quit responding; my heart has been scraped raw inside my chest. I think about what I want to actually tell them; they don’t deserve me. Or you. Or anyone.

I barely stop myself from responding.

Have you ever angry fucked after grown men with signs screamed obscenities at you simply for expressing affection? Because let me tell you, angry fucking in protest against men who’d rather see you dead is a hell of a rush.

Have you ever flipped off a car of young men after they screamed, “DYKE” out their window? They keep laughing and driving, but you and your partner watch for it to slow down, terrified they’ll turn around. Be ready to run. You encouraged them.

Have you ever fucked your way through years of internalized hate to self acceptance? Fucking is your rebellion, your resistance, and eventually your freedom. Sex is fucking beautiful when it’s you tearing down the cisheteropatriarchy.

Have you ever held your partner in front of unsupportive parents? Disgusting, sinful, selfish. How dare you force your lifestyle on them. The passive aggressive sneering. You’re carving out this space as people who are choosing to openly exist. This is a privilege. You will lose things. You already have.

Have you ever twined your fingers together with your partner’s? Only to quickly drop their hand when the looks, the words, the laughter, become too much? Have you ever kissed in protest? Homophobes hate wet tongues.

Have you ever been afraid of going to the bathroom? Which one do you use? You don’t really belong in either one. Your body has lost its sacredness. Peeing is your reclamation.

Have you ever seen the power of LGBTQIA2S+ existence in public? Felt the rage? The resistance? Rebellion? Lust? Desperation? Love? Let it swallow you.

Have you ever? Have you ever? Have you ever have you ever have you everhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyouever

Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

Have you ever fucking screamed your soul out in the face of hate?

-Kain

Kain’s Tips While Hiding the Tiddie

This summer I started binding or, as I like to call it, hiding the tiddie. I’ve learned a lot. Binding doesn’t have to be uncomfortable or painful as is often painted in the few depictions of binding in media. Binding can, and often is, very important for many trans and gender nonconforming folks, and I’ve listed what I’ve learned while binding below. Happy binding, friends!

When folks tell you to drink water, they mean it. Binding is a sweaty, sweaty ordeal during the summer. You get tired. You might feel like a greasy blob. It’s sticky. It’s frankly unpleasant if you’ve been sweating and moving around a lot because it feels like your binder is rubbing your sides raw. There’s a reason that it’s advised to not wear a damp binder for long periods of time. Love yourself and change.
Showers are magic.
Lots of places make binders but binders made by trans and gender nonconforming folks are the binders you want if you’re binding breasts. I use the gc2b half binders and love them. Gc2b binders come in everything from skin tones to bright popping colors and are discreetly packaged. Check out gc2b here: https://www.gc2b.co/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwquTbBRCSARIsADzW88yirhtCpqCEn88XVHkveyhtTYGED-ttqF3kq7FXiIzw3N-wCLGRjtIaAv72EALw_wcB
Buy more than one binder. You will need to change, especially when you are a hot summer mess. Binders need to be washed, and you don’t want to have to plan your life around when you wash your binder if you can help it.
People who do not bind and have never cared about your breasts before will start to care about your breasts A LOT. Whether they are telling you to drink more water, telling you about the dangerous nature of binding (it’s only dangerous if you do it incorrectly), or asking where your breasts went (They ran away, Carol, obviously), they will have opinions. You will not ask for their opinions, especially since most of these opinions are from people who think about office supplies when they hear, “binder.” Ignore them, drink water, and listen to your body.
Take breaks from binding. It’s helpful to even just take it off for 15 minutes.
Don’t put your binder in the dryer. As someone who frequently forgets I’ve thrown it in the laundry, this has obviously happened. This ruins the elasticity of your binder and can make it unsafe and ineffective to wear.
The first time you put on your binder, you’ll feel like your chest is being restricted. This feeling will go away as you wear your binder and your body gets used to binding.
Measure, measure, measure for a binder that is properly sized. Go a size up if you’re planning on working out, swimming, or doing anything super strenuous in your binder. Again, I recommend gc2b. If your binder gets wet, take it off when you can. If you can, designate a binder to work out in, and one or two others for the day to day. I wear my properly sized binder for day to day things and my one size up binder for working out, hiking, and swimming. You can be active while binding!
Don’t flatten your breasts out if you can. Your nipples should be pointed out, not down.
If your binder doesn’t fit, don’t wear it. This seems obvious, but it’s something many people make exceptions to.
If you can’t afford a binder, there are some great programs out there! Check out Point of Pride’s binder give away program here: http://point5cc.com/chest-binder-donation/
It’s suggested that binding for years and years can degrade your breast tissue. For some folks, that’s a big deal and some of us don’t care. Make sure to talk with your surgeon about how long you’ve been binding if you’re planning on future top surgery.
If you’re not about your binder showing at all, you’re gonna have to pay attention to the types of necklines you buy. Binders are pretty full coverage, so keep that in mind. I’m busy living that crew neck and flannel life which basically means I dress exactly the same now as I did when I was a grungy 16 year old. I’m embracing it.
Don’t try to put a binder on if your skin is wet. If putting on a sports bra right after a shower is the first ring of Hell, putting a binder on right after a shower is the ninth ring.
Binding doesn’t eliminate your breasts. You’re likely not going to be completely flat, and that’s okay! Button downs, zip hoodies, cardigans, and patterns are going to be your best friend if you’re binding to look flat. Binders work with those things to create a pretty snazzy illusion of flatness that nothing else will besides top surgery. Obviously, breast size plays into how flat or not flat you are. I have C cups and overall am pretty confident in how my chest looks when I bind.
You don’t have to be trans or gender nonconforming to bind! Many of us are, but not all of us, and we have lots of different reasons to bind.

I hope these tips help. I did a lot of research before I started binding, and I’m glad I did, but there was still a lot that I learned after I started binding that I didn’t read elsewhere. Binding has given me a lot of confidence in how I exist in spaces, and has been incredibly freeing.

–Kain

Family In Mourning

Sometimes healing looks like mourning.

I can love you without accepting you.

My mother doesn’t blink as she says it; I stare back. These are words she believes. She trusts this is what God wants. Every thought and feeling whooshes from me before returning as the familiar slow-burn anger I always carry with me.

Her face is unreadable. Mine fights to match hers.

I need you to respect my name.

I need you to respect my pronouns.

I need you to respect who I am.

I want your support in my transition.

If you can’t accept me, you’ll lose me.

I need her to understand how much pain I am in, but I’m caged. I lash out. I hate her.

You’re the one who really mattered.

Accepting me is turning her back on God. Her tone flares fire then drops to ice again in heartbeats. How could I ask her to make that choice? I leave the table, and I leave her.

I’m selfish.

I’m making her choose between her child and her God, and she will always choose her God.

I need you to love me, not the idea of me.

Tears leak from my eyes while I repack my bag for the airport. My aunt wakes up to wish me safe travels. My mother acts like everything is okay. I resent her for it.

You lied. You told me you’d always love me. You can’t make love conditional now.

I cry in the airport over a soggy burrito that I want to purge with each bite. I hide behind blue lenses. The person in front of me does their best not to look at me as I sniffle.

I board my plane. I sit in the blue seat. I wish I was alone.

Sometimes healing looks like mourning.

Sometimes healing is mourning.

–Kain

Unlearning the Evangelical in Me

I am unlearning the evangelical in me.

I hate the evangelical church.

I need to say that.

I learned God could never love me or any other LGBTQIA2S+ person. Not as we are.

I learned that HIV/AIDS was God’s punishment for being gay.

I learned that Intersex people where proof of the Fall and the sinfulness of Man.

I learned that my sexual purity was the equivalent of a piece of duct tape. The more sex I had, the less important, less useful, less necessary was that duct tape, and in essence, me.

I learned that LGBTQIA2s+ folks would lead to the downfall of our nation.

I learned that as someone assigned female at birth, I was required to submit.

I learned that my voice did not matter.

I learned that being LGBTQIA2S+ meant I could never be close to God.

I learned that God could make me straight and cis if only I prayed hard enough. If it didn’t happen, I didn’t mean it.

I learned to hate myself, to repress myself, to wish I would die instead of being who I was.

I learned that people who say they’ll always love you only mean it if you’re cis and straight.

I learned to hate other LGBTQIA2S+ people.

I learned that people you never talk to will try to convert you when they see a chance to.

I learned that my faith only mattered if it looked like theirs.

I learned that Billy Graham is a bigger Jesus than Jesus.

I learned that middle aged men and women care a lot about who you have sex with and how you have it.

I learned that being open and loud about my identity would cost me relationships and community.

I learned that I chose to be LGBTQIA2S+ because God would never fuck up and make something like me.

I learned that who I’m attracted to is a bigger sin than murder.

I learned that I was predatory.

I learned that I was wrong.

I learned that I could never love or be loved.

I learned I could be gay as long as I hate myself and never love someone else.

I learned I could never be trans.

I learned that God was literal and God was a man.

I learned I didn’t agree with that.

I learned I was gay/trans because my mom brought sin into our home.

I learned that I’m the only one who gets to trash talk my mom. They learned that too.

I learned that acceptance and love aren’t the same thing because love is supposed to look a lot like hate.

I learned that the church should be a leader in denying human rights.

I learned that I shouldn’t have rights.

I learned that my relationships could never be real.

I learned I can only love one man in my entire life.

I learned I’m just lying to myself.

I learned leaving the church was the only way I’d find God.

I learned a God who loves LGBTQIA2S+ folks can’t be a real God.

I learned I’d take that God over the evangelical God.

I’m unlearning the evangelical in me.

–Kain