I guess that I feel okay to talk about it. I was thinking about it a lot lately. Recently I thought I was getting to where I enjoyed car rides again...the night I had this thought. I had a very horrid and vivid dream about being in another wreck. I've been having a lot of these recently. Like my brain is punishing me. "How do you relax? How dare you feel safe?"
I really hate saying something triggers me. A lot of people use that word wrong. A lot of people say something 'triggers' them just because they don't like it. It is not my intention to invalidate someone's traumas but I know plenty of people who misuse the word or use it jokingly. I used to be the type to jokingly say to my friends 'that triggers me.' Were there things that reminded me of traumatizing events in my life? Certainly. Yelling makes me think of my dad. So do the words 'stupid,' 'invalid,' 'retarded,' and 'useless.' But these were never extreme enough for me to consider it a 'trigger.' It was just something that made me unhappy.
No, it took me a while to admit to myself "I have PTSD" from the wreck. I first realized just how extreme a trigger was to me when I was exiting the Dollar store by my house. It was only a month or two after the wreck and I was eye level with the caved in, scraped up, smashed side of a silver pick-up truck. I didn't recognize immediately what I saw. I just gasped in horror, jumped even at the site. It immediately took me to the scenes of our wreck: crunched up metal, broken glass, a headlight laying on the ground. My heart was pounding hard and I had reacted without any thought. I just sat in the handicapped space in my wheelchair, staring, trying to calm down. That truck wasn't moving. The owner had driven it to the store...but even so, my body had reacted without warning. At intersections - I flinch. If someone moves forward just a bit at one when it is our turn to go, I find myself gasping softly or saying 'watch out.' I realize this can be annoying, but it isn't something I do on purpose.
Hell, its annoying to me. I just want to enjoy car rides again. I remember when I was sixteen or seventeen, I was traveling to AZ. I was scared shitless of planes (and I still am.) I recall chuckling smugly every time someone assured me that 'cars were more dangerous than planes.' Sure, I had been in a few tiny, insignificant wrecks as a child but I still felt invincible. "That'll never happen to me." I had spent so many hours on car trips, on interstates, at intersections, with my family and had never really faced what I did until I turned 20. The fact of that matter is, it is still affecting me, 7 months later. I don't even know when I'll be okay. When will I stop flinching? When will the sounds of breaking glass, screeching tires, honking horns, sirens, and even the sound of aluminum being crushed stop bothering me? When will little things like assholes pulling in front of us quickly stop making my heart race? I honestly can't say for sure. At 16, I felt invincible. At 21...I feel breakable, small, and fragile - constantly in fear. Every time I sit in a car, every time I climb into the passenger seat, I feel sick and worried. Sitting in the back makes it no better. Closing my eyes makes it worse. And seeing wrecks on TV or on the side of the road? That is probably the worst.
I really hate feeling this way. I hate feeling hesitant to leave the house just because of my fears. Some say that "getting back in the saddle" will help you. But so far, it hasn't.
assignment: Write a descriptive poem about a person. Each line must be ten syllables. Must have 15 lines.
Ivory skin, flush cheeks. Thin roseate lips,
curved into a smile warmer than the sun.
Cerulean eyes, shining happilly—
as a song is sang in light, airy tones.
Strawberry-blonde, wavy hair frames rounded features.
Blanched pinafore with translucent lace;
she sewed it with utmost care in a day.
Azure stockings cover small shaking legs.
The chill wind nips at a delicate face,
causing a tiny, round nose to tinge red.
She waits for her brother’s safe return.
Gratitude is expressed as she takes…
the heavy green military jacket--
which he needed when he was far away.
And all the while, she was waiting for him.
assignment: Write a 40 line poem from the perspective of something none living. Take into consideration what it would understand and not know about.
Rising.
Rising up.
Slowly at first,
we are rising from the opening…
in a brass or wind instrument.
A slow tempo…
sets the pace for our lives.
Digits move elegantly across keys--
that release us into the air.
Adagio…
Avec!
We are unrestrained…
rising up with the air--
that flows slow, purposeful…
a bene placito.
Accelerando…
We are rising faster,
as their breath increases,
their fingers move faster…
And we are colliding occasionally.
Our lives vary in length.
Some of us live long;
some of us are short-lived.
Our mortality is determined…
by our creators.
Accented.
More of us are born…
Accented by the woman’s voice.
A capella…
for a short amount of time.
Bellicoso.
In a war-like state,
our movements are faster--
as the band joins back in.
Cut time.
Our lives are shorter,
As the music swells—
Crescendo.
De capo.
Our lives are short;
but we bring happiness
through our melody.
Con dolore –
we must say goodbye,
singing our praises
al fine.
written from the perspective of a parent. I feel this is a common thing wherein parents are afraid of their children leaving and break them down. The assignment was to write a poem where someone does/says something bad or harmful but thinks they are in the right.
“Don’t look at me like that --
you know damn well that I…
I can’t handle it.
Your emerald eyes are scornful…
placing the blame on me;
you always place the blame on me.
It can’t be helped.
According to you,
I say the wrong things --
my words rip through your heart,
time and time again but…
I am only doing it for you.
To save you.
Your hopes are too high…
your dreams are too bright.
And where do I fit into them?
Did you even consider how I feel?
I want to be with you…
because you are mine.
And mine alone.
Why must you leave me?
Why don’t you tell me--
tell me your plans for the future?
Is it because you know that --
I will not approve of them?
I can’t approve of them…
not if it means you leaving me.
I can’t let you go.
So even if you hate me,
I will continue…
To break you down. “
written for class. We had to describe what was in a character’s wastebasket and hint why it may be there. I was inspired by Misaki Yata from K and this little bit happened.
The twenty year-old redhead sat before his desk, papers scattered across it. Memories accompanied each item but now was the time to throw some of them away. Good times served as a reminder of what was now a lonely point in his life. He moved the papers and objects around slowly, sorting them into what was important and what wasn’t.
Amongst the pile of things he would throw away was a bolo tie with an iron cross. It had once belonged to his best friend before they parted ways. He ran his finger across the smooth metal of the pendant before dropping it into the wastebasket. He stared at math notes and ripped pages of middle school journals, wadding them up and tossing them into the trash as well. The next was a pair of earbuds; they were old and broken, having been shared between two friends everyday on the bus ride to and from school. He gripped them in his pale hand before dropping them into the wire basket as well. Everything contained a memory; everything stirred a new emotion. Pictures of happy times past sat at the top of the basket, just in case he decided to keep them later, even if they reminded him of the friend he no longer had.
“Seriously, man.
Why can’t people just keep
an eye on their kids?
No one takes you seriously, anyway…
but this is just disrespect.
They let them do whatever they want.
Open candy and leave the wrapper,
unfold the shirts on display;
don’t get me started on the toy aisle!
I’ve picked up five footballs today!
When I was that age,
my parents would have smacked me.
At the very least they would have hit my hands,
and told me to put them in my pockets.
And I behaved.
Why? Because I was taught respect.
Kids these days have no respect.
And neither do their parents.
They think it’s our job to clean up—
after them and their kids.”
At times, the home was pleasant but only when he was away. The lavender trim on eggshell walls was calming. There was always something going on in the beginning. The smell of cake and other treats wafting through the air, the twinkling of middle-aged women laughing and gossiping as they sipped chardonnay was music to her daughter’s ears. Every weekend was a glamorous party, a meeting of women who had nothing better than to do but talk about their husbands, boyfriends, or lovers over a game of cards. The sound of Louis Armstrong’s “Hello Dolly” makes its way out of the old tube radio and up the stairs.
Her daughter is perched atop a royal blue bedspread, a book open in front of her. She can’t help but to tape her toes to the music and sniff the air. She will do anything to try not to listen in on their conversations. She gazes longer than she should at her own wall, it is a drab, dull gray. Her carpet is an old looking gray-green color that smells as old as her grandmother. The room, to her, does not hold negative connotation right now.
And as she makes her way her to the top of the stairs, she can smell the thick, sweet scent of a cigar. There is a soft gasp, followed by shuffling and pardons as her mother’s friends make excuses to leave. “I left the oven on” or “My husband will be getting home soon.” It can’t be helped, she thinks to herself. After all, they are in the face of a monster. He is a monster and he will act out as such when everyone is gone. Her mother will stop hiding behind her mask of happiness, until it is time for her friends to congregate again. Hopefully next week, he won’t be home early.
The outside of the house seemed promising enough. It was on a street in a small town called Alexandria, only a block away from one of the seventeen churches. The street’s houses were a bit close together, not leaving much room for a yard, just enough space for a small garden. There were two stories to the house and its yellow siding and white trim was inviting enough. There were even two sets of steps, one wooden and one stone, all leading up to the same stone porch. From the street, the house looked average for a small town.
Move a bit closer and stand in the miniscule front yard and it was clear that some things were a bit off. The house set at a slight angle, as did both sets of stairs. There was a wooden board nailed to a small part of the house where the siding had fallen off. The grass was long, probably because the house hadn’t been lived in for a bit of time. Even the bricks in the sidewalk were raising their heads and jutting out at weird angles. But one must remind themselves that in a small town, such things were commonplace.
We were ushered into the house, my crutches sliding slightly over a cracked marble imbedded in the cement porch. The screen door didn’t quite close properly but this was our new home. The would-be living room had plush chocolate brown carpet and the walls were supposed to be white. They had taken on a yellowed tinge due to either age or a previous owner smoker. It wouldn’t make much difference - my dad had the same distasteful habit. The stairs were only a few feet before us and a little to the right, they were steep and intimidating to a child with cerebral palsy. However, the carpeting was a promise of a decreased likelihood in getting hurt. Directly across the stairs was a bathroom with a few cracked tiles and a broken doorknob. To the left of the stairs was a kitchen with warped wooden floors that smelled of old spaghetti sauce and remnants of garlic. From the kitchen, you could exit through another rickety door, its white paint chipping. This was home, I had to remind myself. I knew we wouldn’t be there long, and I was certainly thankful that I wouldn’t have to learn to love this place.
Crashing! The gods are angry and are not afraid to let the small inhabitants of the world below know. Another jagged light moves across the sky. Or is the light from the ground? No one seems to know for sure. The light is the only thing that illuminates the sky that night. Even the stars are hidden, nestled away under a dark charcoal blanket.
The town below seems to be hiding as well. No one dares step a foot outside, not when the blackness has taken over so quickly and has lasted until now. And the town itself seems to be asleep, just as most of the people in their homes are. There are lights on, flashing a bit with each loud boom; as if trying to call out to one another. Their light doesn’t even fill the street as thick fog strolls down the street. Despite the silence in most homes, the noise outside is becoming a sort of soundtrack. Long tree branches scrape their talons across a window or the side of a house, moving along with the wind. The rain pounds heavily on rooftops, creating a unique sound for each home. The thunder grows louder as it continues its journey across the sky.
The disturbance never lasts for long. Its presence, however, will still be known as the sun peaks over the horizon in the early morning hours. The sunlight will illuminate puddles on the street, causing them to sparkle and shine. As the townspeople step out of their homes, they will surely be surprised that such a beautiful scene has followed such an unsettling night. The night’s weather always brings with it a sense of dread until it has passed.
There’s an image reflected—
upon the water’s surface.
Blond ringlets and blue eyes,
that is what she sees.
White curls accentuate--
the crow’s feet around her eyes,
and the smile lines decorating her lips;
Her smile is still a warm summer afternoon.
Nimble fingers once moved swiftly—
plucking and pressing the strings,
drawing a bow across the violin;
which is older than she.
Now her hands quiver
as the yarn loops around--
the needles she shakily grips.
Her hands are still agile.
And once she ran --
down the grassy hills.
Wind rustled her hair,
and she would play for hours.
Her home overlooks said hill,
flowers bloom atop it.
And at times she sits outside,
sipping tea and imagining--
A young investigator’s life changes when a baby is left on his doorstep. Not wanting her to suffer in an orphanage as he once had, he offers to watch her for a short period, until a better family is found.
Assignment: write a short story between 1,200-2000 words that has some sort of conflict and resolution.
Life had always been simple for Miles Amatus. He was a young, rich, genius who striven for perfection. He wasn’t well-liked but he also paid little mind to such a factor that he deemed trivial. As an investigator, the green-eyed man didn’t need to be liked, he just needed to be taken seriously. Standing at only five-foot-two and having soft facial features had made such a thing difficult early in his career. No one had taken him seriously at first, but that had quickly changed as he moved up the social ladder.
Miles was a lonely individual, not that he seemed to mind. He had been alone for as long as he had remembered. He didn’t need anyone, or anything. Miles’ birth parents had been killed in front of him when he was twelve-years old. It wasn’t until he was sixteen that he was adopted. He graduated high school early and worked hard for the adoptive family who paid for his college. Miles has experienced trauma at an early age and he had wanted nothing but to get justice for those who had suffered as he had. Because of his efforts, he had isolated himself, never truly getting close to anyone. He loved his adoptive family, sure, but the fear of losing them was too much. As such, Miles dedicated every second of his life to work.
Working as well as investing in and selling stocks were all he was good at. That night was no exception as he settled into the royal blue, plush armchair, crossing one leg over another. He took a deep breath, shuffling the papers in front of him on the mahogany coffee table. The wind outside was roaring furiously and tree branches scraped their talons across the windows, as if begging entry. A windy night such as this was the perfect time to get work done, not that Miles didn’t work all the time anyway. Miles had nothing better to do and no friends, so he constantly drowned himself in work, looking over case files and seeing if anything had been missed. Miles found the most peace when he was working; it was safe to say he was always at peace in this case.
Miles brought a cup of black coffee to his lips and blew across the surface of the steaming drink before sipping it, savoring the bitter beverage. No sooner had he sat his cup down had his doorbell rang. Groaning, he stood and pulled the maroon cashmere robe tighter around his body and heading to the door.
Standing on his toes and peering through the peep hole, he saw no one. He frowned, entertaining the idea that it was just neighborhood kids playing a joke on the young millionaire. Slowly, Miles’s heel turned on the cold, wooden floor but the sound he heard from outside stopped him in his tracks. It was a sound that could be heard over the wind, the wretched sound of a child crying. Scowling, Miles turned the deadbolt and threw open the door. No doubt, at his doorstep, was a dreadful sight swaddled in a cheap cotton blanket that was far too thin for this weather and tucked in a baby carrier.
It wasn’t necessarily that Miles hated children, they simply frightened him. He had been alone for so long that he could barely handle people, let alone something that couldn’t take care of itself. Hell, he rarely even remembered to feed himself! Why in all of God’s green earth would someone leave a child on his doorstep? He was notorious for having a cruel attitude and a cold outlook on situations that involved children – only because they hit too close to home. Nonetheless, the short man grabbed the handle of the baby carrier and brought the child inside, closing and locking the door.
First, he needed to calm himself down. He had always been calm but this child had become silent when brought inside and had taken to staring at him with huge, chocolate brown eyes. He stared back at the pudgy baby and took out his phone, turning away to dial into his superior officer. His fingers quickly moved across the buttons. Drawing in a sharp breath, he hit ‘send’ and brought the phone to his ear. Waiting was like an eternity, even if the phone was answered on the second ring.
“Woah, what’s up, Miles? Did you decide you wanted to go drinking with us after all?” The very laid-back officer, Investigator Crist, asked.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I will have to decline,” Miles replied in a curt manner. “You see, I have a bigger problem on my hands…well, I suppose it’s a small…” Miles took another troubled breath, “A baby was left on my doorstep. I don’t see why the parent didn’t just take it to the fire station or police station…even a church! Why my doorstep?”
“Now, now, buddy,” Crist began, chuckling softly, “Calm down there. You are technically with the police, and you are the richest man in the city.”
“That’s beside the point!” Miles roared. “My house is not covered by the damn Safe Haven laws!” Naturally, Miles’ yelling had startled his tiny houseguest. Much to his dismay, the small, olive-skinned child began to wail and Miles groaned loudly.
“I’ll be right over,” his superior said after a moment. “Try picking up the baby and holding it. And don’t drop the child.” With that, the line clicked and Miles was left to his own thoughts and the sounds of a screaming child.
He sat down his phone and wrinkled his nose in disgust, bending down to take the child. He had held his adopted sister’s baby once and remembered how to pick up a baby and support its head. His heart was pounding from nervousness and what he assumed to be revulsion at having to do such a thing. Miles swallowed hard and brought the child to his chest, gently patting its diaper. In the carrier was a folded paper that Miles eyed but did not grab just yet, his focus was on calming the child, which he at last presumed was a girl by the small bow in her mess of black hair.
Miles sighed in relief as the child quieted and was settling into his chair, baby in tow, when there came a soft knock on the door. He stood, holding the little girl close, and opened the door. He looked up, meeting the eyes of his superior who was already trying to stifle his laughter.
“Come in, you’re letting my heat out,” Miles complained, throwing the door open. Crist stepped inside and closed the door. He looked from the baby, to Miles, to the carrier before kneeling down and taking the note in hand. Crist’s eyes scanned the page before looking up at Miles.
“Her name is Melodie. According to this, she is about 6 months old and up to date on her shots. In the letter, the mother expresses that she doesn’t want the child and can no longer care for her. She’d rather have her in the hands of someone the public trusts,” Crist explained.
Miles clicked his tongue in annoyance and said nothing for a long moment, cold eyes calculating. He wrapped his arms tighter around the warm child, recalling how awful a police station was, particularly at night. He had spent the night in a hard chair in a waiting room for five hours after the death of his parents. With all the hustle and bustle, there was no way this child would be looked after properly.
“This kid can’t stay the night at the station. I guess it’s fine if she stays here. I’ll give you some money, go get me some supplies and a book on how to deal with her. She can stay here until you track down a proper place for her to go.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Crist began, “We can just take her to the orphan home in the morning…”
“I won’t allow that,” Miles said sharply, recalling the four years of hell he had spent in such a place. “Find her a proper family, but she’s not going to a damn home.”
Crist sighed softly and nodded in understanding. Miles reached into his wallet after carefully laying Melodie down on the couch, using a pillow on the other side of her to make sure she didn’t fall. He handed money over to Crist and saw him out.
The next few weeks passed with no luck. It had been irritating at first, buying clothes, diapers, formula, getting up at strange hours. Miles never seemed to have time to himself. He felt unlucky and yet as though he finally had a real purpose in life other than work. He had taken to office work while Melodie was around and his sister babysat during the day, teasing him about how domestic he had become.
He couldn’t even deny it as weeks turned months. He got to see her crawl, to sit up, even to walk. The man who once hated shopping because of the crowds often found himself in the toy aisle, buying a new toy for Melodie at least once a week. This child, now a year old, had grown on him. He found himself constantly worrying when he was away from her. When his colleagues teased him, asking how his baby was doing, he would give a rare smile and show them a picture of her. He even had a party for her on her birthday, calling his adopted family and his colleagues to his house on a sunny day.
Melodie sat in a comfortable, but not overpriced high chair and Miles stood beside her, staring at everyone in his dining room. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I…I’m going to adopt this little girl…She has grown on me. Even if I think children are a pain and that they are useless, I don’t feel this way towards her, for some reason…That’s it.”
Miles sat down quickly in a chair beside Melodie. Some of his colleagues seemed shocked, others couldn’t help but grin. His sister, the rest of his adoptive family, and Investigator Crist, were beaming brightly at the young man.
Miles’ future had already changed and he was no longer be alone. The thought of being near someone bothered him very little now.
In fact, it brought him comfort to know that he could provide a second chance for Melodie, just like he had been given.
The world is disjointed;
and yet --
the colors mesh
and we are all related.
Hopeful minds;
distant hearts.
We are connected by life
we are separated by color.
Yet many colors are similar;
none is unique
We are all part of a bigger picture,
acting as one.
He is alone, in his mind. The moon borrows light from the sun to brighten it and he is no different. Cold. Empty. Alone. Lonely. His ebony hair hangs over cold, steely eyes, brushing alabaster cheeks. His eyes are like the winter sky, overcast and cold. And no one can hear him whisper, but inside he is screaming.
To them, he is the sun. He is surrounded by them; they flock to him. They are not the warmth from the sun; they are the moon. And he is the sun, shining at the center of them. The image in the mirror reflected, isn’t how he views himself. The person across from him is warm, wearing a smile. His blue eyes shimmer like the sun in summer. His laugh lights up the room.
Pick a song; explain how it relates to you and what emotions it stirs.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-qiaa9xhlo
The ugly naked truth:
She starves me of my youth,
And I stand alone until
You catch on.
I swear it’s not by choice.
But Ana has this voice,
And it calms me down,
It gives me purpose.
And it’s alright,
I’m alright,
I want to be okay.
I’ve seen it before,
This eyesore; it’s me.
Ohh, ohh, ohh, me.
I want out from under
This confining skin
That I so reluc-tantly live in.
My worth is measured solely
According to the scale.
I am heavy, but I feel frail.
And it’s alright,
I’m alright,
I want to be okay.
I’ve seen it before,
This eyesore; it’s me.
If I wanted to, I could break down by each line with this song appeals to me and how much emotion it stirs in me. When I first heard this song, it made me cry. It was a good emotional release. In the first verse, Maria addresses the issues she has with her mother, stating, “She starves me of my youth.” Likewise, my youth was snuffed and I was forced to grow up early because of a verbally-emotionally abusive father and a terminally ill mother (whom I live with now). I’m not exactly sure who ‘Ana’ is but my ‘Ana’ is my best friend; I see her often and it helps me alot. If I’ve had a bad or upsetting day, my best friend is always there to calm me down. Even if my depression makes me feel hopeless and suffocates me in emotion and helplessness and anger, my best friend always manages to pull my head above water and gives me purpose.
We’ll skip talking about the chorus for now and concentrate on the next verse. The second verse is pretty blatant about what its discussing — a negative body image. Being disabled and unable to walk, excercises that I can do are not as likely to burn calories and help me lose weight. And then, there’s the fact the I’m not in control of our finances or groceries — which is frustrating because I want to eat healthier. I’ve always been overweight and I’ve never been body positive. A lot of society really does measure our worth based on a scale. All the time I hear things like “She’s disgusting” or “Fat chicks are gross” from my family about other people. And it’s hurtful, it makes me angry, and it makes me feel fragile mentally. I want to cry anytime someone even mentions someone else’s weight. Some people aren’t in control of their weight as much as they’d like to be but most people only take other’s at face value, i.e. judging a book by its cover. If I could change my body, be skinnier, taller, maybe — you know, not have cerebral palsy; I would choose not to live in the skin I do but this is who I am, this is the body I’m stuck with and I just have to learn to love myself.
Lastly, we focus on the chorus of this song and how it relates to me. I can’t say how many times I have told myself over and over that “I’m alright” even if I’m not. I have never had the best views of myself, I have always thought of myself as an eyesore and while I am working on liking myself more and more, it’s difficult. It isn’t easy but I think one day, I will be okay with myself, my emotions, and the way others treat me.
(posted 11/22/14 on wordpress, needs revision to include gender non-conforming)
English Assignment: write an informative essay on a controversial issue. Remain as neutral on the subject as possible while providing concerns from each side of the argument.
Transgender Rights in Educational Institutions
The objective of any school should, and usually is, the safety, well-being, and growth of students. The twenty-first century has been upon us for some time and with each year, brings a higher rise in awareness of the varying sexualities, identities, races, and feelings of people all over the world. With this raised awareness, comes questions of human rights. One particular right that is heavily debated right now is transgender rights Schools now face a complicated array of questions in regards to the safety of transgender students, as well as those of cisgender, and non-binary students. . Should we allow transgender students to enter bathrooms, locker rooms, and play on sports teams that match with their gender identity and not their physical sex? Does this access invite students to abuse it and, worst case scenario, abuse one another? What should schools do to protect transgender students from bullying? The question of how schools can protect the well-being of students is heavily debated amongst the LGBT+ and religious communities.
Challenges, triumphs, and questions of the LGB and transgender community are not uncommon to see in media over the past few years (Scott). California in particular has caught attention in the last year or so with its AB 1266 law which states that “A pupil shall be permitted to participate in sex-segregated school programs and activities, including athletic teams and competitions, and use facilities consistent with his or her gender identity, irrespective of the gender listed on the pupil’s records (AB-1266).
This law has, of course, raised questions and objections. Opponents of the bill argue that opening sensitive facilities such as showers, locker rooms, and bathrooms are an invasion of student privacy and put cisgender students in danger. Without a way to tell whether or not a student is actually transgender, opponents argue, students will try to play the system, putting others at risk to sexual harassment (Blad). Others state that the language used in the law is too broad. The law does not have specific wording and guidelines that protect both cisgender and transgender students. Frank Schubert, who headed Proposition 8, states that “There are no procedures to balance the interest of all students.” He also argues that “Somebody claiming to be a girl can go into the girls’ showers and bathroom and the locker room and can play on the girls’ sports team (Steinmetz).” Naturally, a handful of religious-based institutions are opponents to transgender rights in colleges and schools. Religious institutions, such as George Fox University, have sought exemption from the law such as when a female-to-male requested he be transferred to an all-male dormitory. This action is a prime example of the existing tension between equal treatment of an individual under the law and principles of religious self-determination (Ray).
Supporters of transgender rights in schools argue that the law and others like it will provide safety for transgender students. Judy E. Chiasson, program director for 640,000-student Los Angeles Unified school District’s diversity program, has never had issues with students abusing a system similar to AB-1266 since the system’s founding in 2005. “If someone was going to try to declare themselves as transgender just so they could sneak into the girls’ restroom for lecherous reasons, we would absolutely intervene,” she told Education Week in an interview (Blad). Sixteen-year old, female-to-male student, Ashton Lee, says that he had once felt uncomfortable attending school because it made him feel like someone he was not (Blad). Lee also reported that, after the law took effect, “It’s just helps get me to being normal at my school (Steinmetz).” It can also be just as easily argued that sex-segregated facilities and sports can be damaging and dangerous to transgender students. Transgender students are often the subject of ridicule and bullying for identifying, acting like, and sometimes dressing like the sex they feel most comfortable as. Sex-segregation can be demeaning to students who do not fall within the standards of gender and sex aligning. Seventy percent of trans students report be persecuted, bullied, or in rare, but awful cases, killed or driven to suicide in 2013 (Martin).
The ultimate question, for educators such a S. Alan Ray, of the religious institution, Elmhurst College, is whether or not seeking religious exemption from the law puts a strain on the growth of the student body. Education, Ray says, is preparing students for navigation in a culture-rich and ever-changing society. Educational institutes are expected to teach students and help them grow so they can decide who they are in the world. It is the job of educators to help students reach their full potential and feel comfortable with shaping themselves into upstanding members of society (Ray). Arguably, if stricter and less ambiguous wording was in California’s AB-1266, then maybe it would garner less opposition. Protection of students and faculty and providing a safe place is the duty of any educational system, religious or otherwise. In an ever-changing society, where knowledge is growing and so are the social norms, it is the job of educational institutes to cater to the needs of its students and provide a comforting environment for them.
Works Cited
Blad, Evie. “Calif. Transgender Law Takes Effect In Schools, Amid Efforts To Repeal It.” Education Week 33.18 (2014): 19-22. Academic Search Premier. Web. 17 Oct. 2014
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