How does one measure courage?

How does one measure courage?
Is an Iraqi war veteran more courageous than a child fighting cancer?
Is an amputee more courageous than someone who hasn’t lost a limb?
Is an athlete more courageous than a single mother?

If so, then who is the most courageous one of all?

We cannot measure courage. Comparing scars does nothing. Your battle is different than mine, and mine is different than theirs. Our scars don’t exist to be compared. They exist to show strength. My scars show battles I’ve won, battles unique to me. And when something is unique, there is nothing to compare it to.

Our journeys through life are unique. Each step we take has not ever been taken, by anyone, before. Similar paths have been traversed, and recognizable steps have been taken, but everything you do, is unique because you do it.

It takes courage to come out, whether it be out of the closet or out of your gender, and knowing the world could hate you for it. It takes courage to go off to war, knowing you might not come back home. It takes courage to lay in a hospital bed while toxic chemicals are pumped into you, fighting off an enemy you cannot see.

Are any of these things more courageous than the other? No. They’re all different, unique struggles and battles that take individual strength to endure. No single action can be called the most courageous action, and to try to compare such actions has the potential to invalidate the struggle that each individual has gone through.

You cannot measure courage by comparing your actions to those actions of others. You can only compare yourself to past selves, and take pride in what you’ve done, how far you’ve come, and what battles you’ve won.

Advertisements

Not All of Us

We’re erasing each other.

“Yeah, but not all men are rapists.”

“Not all white people are racist.”

“Not all Christians hate gays.”

It’s become so important for us to distance ourselves from those groups who these statements are about that we’re missing the point. Of course not all men are rapists. I’m a transguy, and I’m not a rapist, but I also don’t need to tell people that.

“Hi, I’m Teri. I like cats, I like to write…oh, and I’m not a rapist.” No, that’s stupid. If you have to state that you are the exception to the rule, and not the standard, something is terribly wrong.

There’s been a movement, where Christians show up at gay pride festivals across the country and apologize for the pain and suffering inflicted by the religion. They hug LGBT people and say “I’m Sorry” and wear t-shirts with the phrase emblazoned on the front. There’s other movements too, where white people have shown up to protest alongside blacks in their neighborhoods, protesting police brutality.

It’s not enough. Saying you’re a good Christian, and you’re sorry doesn’t do anything for me. Why? Because it doesn’t close the gap between the two communities. You’re sorry on behalf of those who wish to take away my rights, and in some instances, wish me dead. They’re not sorry. They most likely never will be sorry. So unfortunately, your apology, as well intentioned as it may be, is empty. At least to me. If five people at a pride event say they’re sorry, then I go home and there’s 20 people talking about how it’s the LGBT community’s fault that Nebraska had an earthquake, or a reporter is telling the story of a trans life taken much too soon…it just simply isn’t enough.

We talk of privilege. Privilege of skin, privilege of money, of education, of sexual orientation and gender identity. But what do we do with it? I’m sure there are black people who appreciate the white people standing beside them in solidarity, but that doesn’t stop black youth from dying.

A Christian telling me they’re sorry doesn’t change the fear I have using a public restroom or keep me from being fired because I’m trans.

So you’re sorry. That’s great. But don’t come to me to assuage your guilt for being Christian. Don’t tell a woman who has been raped that not all men are rapists, because clearly it doesn’t do her a damn bit of good. If you want to help, if you truly want to make a difference, get out there and change things. Engage in conversations with other Christians, tell them you know gay people, that you know transgender people, and surprise! We’re not bad or evil. Use your white privilege to change people’s attitudes. Call others out when they’re racist. Go to community meetings and stand up and tell people that police brutality is not only unacceptable, but that it needs to stop and things MUST change. When other men are being misogynist, call them out. Let them know that it’s not right.

Be that change. Don’t hug me and tell me that you’re sorry. I appreciate it, but it doesn’t help me move forward towards equality.

Yes, all lives matter, and yes, not all of us are [pick your poison]. But stop erasing the struggle because you need to clear your conscience. I know you’re a good person, but simply being a good person doesn’t create the change that’s needed to make this place safe for all of us. Stop telling me you’re a good Christian and go find out why the bad Christians feel the way they do about us.

Stop being the exception. Become the standard.