Tag: identity

Hairy

O.K., look people, let’s just cut right to the chase- I’m hairy. I just am. Always have been, always will be. And I won’t keep you in suspense for one second. Yes, that is a photo of me above. That is how I look right this very second. So, so much to say about this, so here we go!

First things first, because this is the first thing that enters my mind when I wonder what people are going to think when they see me: no, I am not transitioning. I love, love, love being a woman. If God came to me today and said it is time for you to transition to another embodiment, what’s it going to be male or female?… I wouldn’t hesitate for one second before emphatically choosing the latter. That’s how much I align with being a woman at this stage of human history. More on this some other time. But with that out of the way, let’s get to the bottom of this hair thing.

A little background is in order. Nobody who knows me has ever seen me like this. What’s more, I have never seen myself like this. Yet that isn’t because facial hair is a new thing for me. It’s not a result of changing hormones as I age. Nope. I’ve been like this since, well, puberty… which frankly didn’t go so well for me. Abnormalities with my period landed me in a gynecologist’s office, who quickly deferred me to an endocrinologist. A lot of blood over multiple tests revealed that my testosterone levels are higher than what is considered normal for a woman. Yup, I was diagnosed “abnormal” as just a teenager. Abnormal, of course, isn’t o.k. in our culture, so something had to be done. I was started on hormone therapy via pharmaceuticals right away. I stayed on those for several years, before finally one day in college I had had enough. I didn’t like how my body was responding. I didn’t like how I felt. I didn’t feel suddenly “right,” but quite the opposite. Nor is there any curing this abnormality. There is only overriding it with drugs. So I just stopped, and I’ve never gone back on that decision.

Now I need to take a quick time out here to say a little something more about this condition and my decision. Back in 1935 this hormone condition was labelled Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS, which is an absolutely horrible name for it because it incorrectly labels the condition for one possible symptom (cysts on the ovaries) rather than the cause (higher than normal androgen levels). So now you can read more about it if you are curious. While day in and day out I stand by my decision to not treat it, that decision is in fact risky. It puts me at a higher risk for endometrial cancer for one. So I am not advocating here what anybody else’s decision should be should they discover that they have PCOS. My decision was based on listening to my own body. I decided to let it do what it naturally wants to do, while doing whatever I can to help it to be happy and healthy. Primarily that means closely watching my weight and exercising regularly.

Now to get back to the hair. My non-traditional hair growth started in my teen years. Yes, I tried all the things that women do to deal with pesky, unwanted hair. I waxed, although that didn’t last long- OUCH! I plucked, and still do, but that became the equivalent of trying to mow the lawn with scissors, so other utensils had to be added. I gave in and began shaving my chin sometime during college. A personal trimmer was added later to keep the blonde hairs above my jaw line short. I tried laser treatments in my thirties (and had to due to a skin tag that developed on my chin), but frankly that only briefly minimized all the other things that I do to deal with it. It didn’t eliminate the hair and it certainly never will. That’s because as long as my hormones remain as they are, I will remain hairy. It is what it is. So here’s the routine: pluck dark hairs above my jaw line at bedtime, shave below my jaw line and trim above my jaw line in the morning. This. Takes. Time. Ugh.

In the meantime, I’ve always been curious. Would I actually have a beard if I let it all go? Well, maybe not a beard, but perhaps a goatee?? I happen to like goatees! When Shannon and I picked out our dogs, she picked Greta because she has an affinity for Rottweilers and we thought she was a Rottweiler mix. Greta turned out to look more like a German Shepherd, but we love her nonetheless! I picked out Finnegan, because I wanted a scruffy scruff with… a goatee! Look at our two cuties:

Isn’t that a great goatee on Finny?! O.K., granted, it’s a bit exaggerated in this photo, but I digress. I wonder, if people actually do start to look like their dogs, maybe I might look like Finny! Well, there is only one way to find out. I have at most only gone a few days without shaving. But three weeks ago, I started a game of chicken with myself. I stopped plucking, trimming and shaving to see how long I could stand it. I didn’t really know how this was going to go or what I might get out of it, other than satisfied curiosity. It turned out to be much, much bigger than that.

It’s one thing to be rough around the edges in the confines of your own home. But the second you have to step out into the world, the whole show changes. In this case, I wasn’t at home alone with Shannon in the first place. My sister-in-law and nephew were here with us all summer. So I instantly had to confront my self-consciousness. That turned out to be a good little warmup for next steps. Other nearby family members and friends were then invariably added into the mix. Uncomfortable! But doable, and I did it. Then the first real test of my resolve- we went out to eat. I had to go out in public. And we went to the Wheel where everyone who works there knows me, no less. Yikes. Plus we had more friends from out of town meeting us there and coming to stay with us afterward. Really, really uncomfortable!! By this point I was a week and a half in and the hair on my chin was easily visible. I was so uncomfortable that I made sure that we sat at a table in the corner so that I could face the wall!!! Yet I survived. The next night we all went out AGAIN. Good grief. This time we sat outside and there was no corner to hide in. I just had to be with it. I made it though, and nobody seemed to look at me funny. Not yet anyway.

That emboldened me a bit and so after all of our visitors left, I suggested that Shannon and I go on an outing. We drove around visiting various general stores throughout Vermont. By this point my hair was unavoidable, and I did get some double takes. Nobody said anything rude. They just looked at me with curiosity. Each time, I just stood into it, doing my best not to shy away. By this point in my adventure, the meaning of it became much clearer to me. It reminded me of a similar adventure that Shannon took ten years ago when she went through a major life transition in which she changed careers and moved down to Texas. She utilized the transitional space to attend yoga teacher training at Kripalu. Before she went, she decided to shave her head. That decision, like mine, was in part just curiosity. What was it like to be bald? But it was really about so much more than that. It was a direct confrontation to her very identity. It was a direct confrontation to her ego. It begged the question, who am I without my hair? Who am I when I don’t look the way people expect me to look? Who am I when people look at me funny? Who am I when I step entirely out of my comfort zone?

For Shannon, it was shaving off all of her hair. For me, it’s growing it all out. There’s no way to anticipate what stepping into these questions brings. Shannon did so knowing exactly what she was doing. I didn’t. All I knew is that I felt compelled, finally, to do it. I have had to build the resolve to stick with it each and every step along the way. With each heightened challenge I think, “Oh there is no way I can do that.” And then I do it anyway. Yesterday Shannon and I went to watch the U.S. and Canadian U-18 and U-22 teams face off in Lake Placid. I knew that I would run into people that I knew. This is the world that Shannon and I come from. It was our whole world at one time. I am now three weeks in and the goatee is way more than just peach fuzz. What doesn’t show up in the photo so well is my mustache and above the chin line hair because it is mostly blonde, or grey as the case may be, horror of all horrors!

Time for a funny story time out. It took me about two weeks to realize it, but once my mustache hairs were long enough, I did in fact realize that some of them were grey, not blonde. I immediately went to Shannon and said, “Shannon.” She said, “What?” Me: “These hairs.” Shannon: “Uh-huh. What about them, Shelly?” Me: “They’re not blonde!” Shannon: “What color are they, Shelly?” Me: “Grey!!!!!!!” Shannon: dying of laughter. It’s not that I mind grey hairs. It’s just that I have a head full of blonde hair still with only a grey hair or two sneaking in there. So it was just a bit, shocking.

And the age thing is part of it. As noted, I will be turning 50 this year. As I settled into this little adventure, I came up with three reasons for it. First, I think it would be nice to actually know what I really look like before I turn 50. Second, I hear we are supposed to stop giving a shit what people think when we turn 50, so I thought I better really get on that. Third, and most importantly, I wanted to face whatever hurt, fear, reservations, shame, vulnerabilities, etc. that have been hiding in this place where I hide my facial hair.

So now back to yesterday’s hockey outing. This one was a huge road block in my head leading up to it. Right up until the day before, I couldn’t imagine going without shaving. But by this point I understood what I was up to and how important it was that I face my fear. I spent the night before giving myself and my inner 5 year old a pep talk. I sat with that 5 year old and told her emphatically, “You are stunning in every way. It doesn’t matter if anyone else can see that or not. I see it.” And then the whole way to the rink I just keep repeating this mantra, “you are stunning, gentle, kind, and loving.” Of course the other thought that crossed my mind is that the Lake Placid 1980 Rink is large enough that we could potentially hide in the corner where nobody would see us. That turned out to be a ridiculous thought. We were spotted in about two seconds flat, but at least that was by somebody who knew Shannon more so than me.

I wasn’t there to hide though, so I made sure to reach out to one person who I knew would be there ahead of time in order to force myself to face her. That person was Cara Gardner Morey, the current Head Coach of Princeton Women’s Ice Hockey, who is serving as an Assistant Coach on the Canadian U-22 team. She got back to me right away and told me to be sure to say hi if I saw her. Well played, Cara. Well played.. even if you were an unsuspecting hero in this story. I thought, well, that doesn’t mean that I am going to see her. She is going to be busy coaching after all. No dice. One period into the U-18 game I saw her talking to her players in the stands just to the left of us. Then I thought, well, I am not going to go disturb her. She’s working. But then her players left and she went and sat a little higher up in the stands- by herself. Dang it! That’s it. I’m going. I turned to Shannon and told her I was going to go just quickly say hi. She smiled, knowingly, and encouraged me along, “O.K., go ahead.”

I was surprisingly calm as I approached. There is something about surrender that frees us. This thing was happening and there was nothing that I was going to do to stop it now. No point fighting anymore. And when that moment came the interesting thing is that I returned to me. I was no longer conscious of what I looked like. I was just me the way that I am when I am around people that I am deeply comfortable with. I sat down beside Cara and told her I came to say hi. She turned to look at me and with the biggest smile said “hi, it’s so good to see you!” and then gave me a big hug. Rather than just that quick hi that I had planned, we sat there chatting, sharing, and laughing for the entire third period. It was amazing. It was fun. It was connecting. It was comforting. Whatever Cara may have noticed or thought about my facial hair (she was literally inches away from my face), she didn’t skip a beat. And I thank you for that, Cara.

So I sit here still with goatee. I don’t know where the adventure will end, as I intend to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. There are, of course, a thousand more “I could never do that’s” in front of me. We’ll see. No matter what I decide to do in the future, I will have in a very real, scary, and tangible way faced this place in me that has been kept under lock and key. The thing about locking a part of us away is that it is impossible to do it. That is to say that it is impossible to only lock a part of us away while letting the rest run free. Life is more of an all or nothing affair. To truly be free, to truly be ourselves, we have to let the parts of ourselves that we have locked up out of jail. Sometimes we have done so to protect ourselves, sometimes to disown ourselves, sometimes both. Whatever the case, it’s a no go. Eventually, we each have to come back to ourselves and choose differently. It doesn’t mean that I have to wear a goatee for the rest of my life. It’s about making it o.k. either way. Who knows, I might end up loving it when it’s fully grown out, and so might you! In the meantime, it’s still scary. Case in point: posting the picture above in a public way scares the shit out of me. But guess what- I just did it!

Houston, …

We all know how this story goes. Yes, we have a problem. Our problem is appearing in a million different ways, making it seem like a million different problems- environmental, social, economic, political, relational, personal, physical, emotional, psychological, and on and on and on. But it’s just one problem. And it’s my problem every bit as much as it is yours. It’s the root of all of our problems. We have forgotten who we are. At least that’s one of the easiest ways to say it. 

Now maybe you are thinking you know exactly who you are. I myself have a pretty good sense of who I am. Of course there are all of the activities that have defined my sense of self: student, gymnast, hockey player, coach, architect, professor, etc. and so on. Then there’s the resume stuff: accomplishments, degrees, awards, positions, affiliations, credentials, etc. and so on. Then there are my relationships: child, sister, parent, friend, mentor, colleague, partner, soul mate. Let’s not forget my possessions: lake house, tiny house, mountain (well, halfish a one anyway), car, phone, computer, clothes, etc. and so on. Put all of these things together and my identity looks pretty darn solid. You might look at me and think that’s one sturdy self you got there. Sure. Of course it is. I’ve spent almost 50 years building it. Have I mentioned that I am an overachiever?

Yet none of what I just mentioned really tells you anything about me. I am actually none of the above. And that’s just the first thing. The only way to get any sense for who I am is to be in relationship with me. There you will begin to find the real stuff of me: my passions, my feelings, my thoughts, my patterns, my energy, my wounds, my joys, my triumphs, my presence, etc. and so on. In other words, being in relationship with me gives you insight into my actual experience of life. My experience is unique, just as is yours. Is this, then, the realm of our true selves? Am I my experience? I think that for most of us, our identity does tend to get stuck in the realm of experience. This is to say that how we experience life tends to define who we think we are. More about this some other time.

Whatever the case, we have a dying need to know who we are. For certain. Where do I end and everything else begin? This isn’t simply an individual phenomenon, it’s also a collective one. So you could say that a family, an organization, a company, a team, a city also form identities in all of the ways mentioned above. Houston has many identities: Space City, Bayou City, Clutch City, H-Town, Screwston, etc. And then there’s the branding. This is what we promote in an effort to control how others perceive us. My branding would hopefully lead you to perceive me as somebody who cares deeply about environmental and social justice issues. Houston’s current branding is “The Energy Capital of the World.” Mind you, this was a deliberate replacement of the previous brand name “The Oil Capital of the World.” Well, nobody needs to explain why the change. Identity is important. It’s how we navigate the world, currently anyway. My question is, how much stock should we really put in it? 

Ah, Houston, you are such an easy target. That is to say, I’m not buying it. And mind you, I am a native Houstonian. In fact, in so many ways I am Houston. But now I am getting ahead of myself. Just understand that I am in a very real sense calling myself out in saying what needs to be said in this moment- “Energy Capital of the World” my ass. No. Not. Not even close. Houston, you are still very much the Oil Capital of the World. You do not get to transition from oil to energy until you actually do the work to do so. Sorry. When the Exxon Mobiles of the world start taking this transition seriously, then I’ll bite. 

For now, I think that it is critical that we all work to see ourselves clearly. This is as true for each of us individually as it is for us collectively. Who am I? Well, if we are talking about my little self- the embodied, relative, human version of me- then the best way to tell who I am is to look for my patterns. For example, I have a tendency toward overachievement. To get to who I really am, just follow the overachievement to the root of it. There you will find a vulnerable, unconfident, insecure, shy, hurt little girl who figured the only way to survive was to succeed. So I did. But if you want to really know me, you have to get to know that little girl. Who is she and what is she really after? You know the answer. We all know the answer. Love. That is both the who and the what of it. The irony, of course, is that who we are is what we are after not realizing that we are already it. 

But back to Houston. Houston, in looking at your patterns what I see is flooding. You know why? Houston is a swamp. Let’s be real. I see unbridled exploitation of resources. You know why? The city was founded on speculation… in the spirit of the wild west. Now before you all join me in throwing stones at Houston, stop. Stop because not only am I Houston (and stones hurt!), but we are all Houston. Houston is, unequivocally, the epicenter of our current world paradigm. Don’t think so? Just follow your own wealth, or the lack thereof, and you will find it is rooted in the discovery of none other than black gold. Oil. Oil was discovered just a stones throw away from Houston. Now these two patterns that I have mentioned are entirely related. Houston is a swamp because it used to be ocean. It was built up over time by the layering of dead organic matter from the sea under the erosion of mountains delivered via rivers. Layer upon layer. Throw some salt in there too. Add a ton of time and pressure and walla! The energy of the sun, having been collected by organic matter, is turned into the most dense storage of energy the world has ever known. And it made us all rich (generally speaking). 

Well, we all know how this story goes. Houston, we have a problem. Some of the most extraordinary minds in the world are working on what to do about it. Some are still not, in large part because their wealth is rooted in the oil economy and they have yet to realize that their pensions are about as real as Enron’s were. Listen, I get it. This is hard stuff. Do you want to know how Houston I really am? My family moved to Houston when I was six months old to chase the dream of black gold. My father is a geophysicist. He was quite good at finding the stuff. I am a pure product of the “Oil Capital of the World.” I know the place like the back of my hand. Not only did it shape my every experience, and therefore me, but I have studied it’s patterns for 30 years now. 

This all leads me to what I need to say in this moment. Houston, after 50 years, I have left. I have left you for higher ground. I am in so many ways a privileged climate refugee. It’s embarrassing to even say that. I had the means and the vision to move out of harm’s way. So I did. I am gone. Yet I have not abandoned you. Not at all. I am Houston. I always will be. I will always keep one hand reaching back for you. So here is what that hand looks like. The most important thing to know is that we have to shift the story. We can no longer focus on the problem. For as long as we focus on the problem, we stay stuck in the very way of thinking that produced the problem. This isn’t news! 

We must instead look for the potential. The key to finding the potential is to follow the patterns. Follow the patterns all the way back to the very thing that was being sought in the first place. What was it? What were we after? What was this place after? What is it really about? What is its essence? What is it really wanting to be? What would it be if it achieved its full glory (potential)? Maybe it is the energy capital of the world, maybe it isn’t. What does that mean anyway? I mean really mean…at the deepest level that we can think about it. If it is wealth we are after, then what is true wealth? Houston, the world is looking upon you now more than ever to solve the problem. I am telling you not to offer a solution. Rise above the problem instead. Move into a new potential like only you can. Just make sure that this new potential creates real wealth (for everyone and everything), rather than the slippery black slope that we have been down. Henceforth let us say, “Houston, we have potential.”