In The Affirmative: I am who God says I am
The real me peeping out - A painting by Wendy's wife Jo.
OUR MOST READ BLOGGER since 2022 is back with the ninth of a series sharing more of her story. This month she reflects on her first long term relationship, which led to domestic abuse. Names have been changed.
In the Affirmative is a monthly blog from Open Table member Wendy Young who shares her life, thoughts and experience as a queer Christian in Britain. We’d love to hear from you, too: Wendy invites readers to add their responses and reactions as we build community together. You can read the rest of the series here.
“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”
What people call each other has been in the news a lot lately. It is not my place to try and imagine what the Supreme Court ruling last month felt like for the trans community and yet I can’t just keep silent either.
When something so monumental happens to some of us, we are all affected to some degree. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be each other’s allies, and I want to be your ally. I have a lot to learn, having only lived my own experience. I can’t possibly know your story, unless you tell it to me. I would love to listen. And, if you permit me, let me tell you some more of my story, so you can know a bit more about me.
At the very unripe age of 21, I started a relationship with Rachel, an older woman who was going through a divorce from her husband and had two small children. If you’ve read my blog from February, you might remember she was the one who came to work at the spa one weekend, knocked over my carefully constructed, very boring product display and made everything look a lot more exciting. And I mean everything. I fell in love completely and couldn’t wait to start a life with her and the kids. She was a different kind of person from anyone I’d ever known: extremely energetic, physically very muscular and strong, outspoken (brash), charismatic. She showered me with large romantic gestures and it felt like I was standing in the sunshine when I was with her.
It was, for both of us, the first time we had been in a long-term same-sex relationship. Although I had been out to my family and friends for years, she was not comfortable with her work colleagues or people at the kids’ school knowing she was with a woman. I kept a very low profile, not having a job after just moving towns to be with her, and spent my days at home, alone or with the kids. When I did have to meet people, she introduced me as her ‘Personal Assistant’ (PA) and I played the part beautifully. Her family only saw me at large gatherings for special birthdays or other celebrations, and I can count these on one hand. They never accepted me and literally asked me to step aside for family photos.
The kids reacted to the divorce in opposite ways: the five-year-old believed everything his dad told him about his mum and me (that we were evil, cruel and sinful) and refused to live with us. He was gifted at sports and when the opportunity presented itself to attend a posh boarding school run by his cricketing hero’s dad, this little boy left our lives in one fell swoop, apart from the odd school holiday when he hated every minute of being with us. His younger brother, who had only just started potty-training, took to me immediately and we co-raised him for almost 11 years.
A few years in, we moved to a different city for work - this time for both of us - and decided to be open about our relationship. I threw myself fully into being Freddie’s parent: I did the school runs, packed the lunches, cooked the dinners and went to parents evenings, all while working full time. Not unique at all, I know, but exhausting! His mum was an athlete, so all of her spare time went on training and races. Freddie and I bonded completely and deeply, something I had not envisioned for myself. In retrospect, I can see that as the initial romance and attraction between his mum and me started waning, I probably found fulfilment in my new role as a mother.
When I remember all the mistakes I made, I want to cry. His mum and I handled most things during our 12 years together quite badly. By the time I had grown into myself a bit more, I could see that this was a very unhealthy relationship. There were many boundaries in place for me, but not for her. I wasn’t allowed to spend any time with friends on my own and we hardly ever went anywhere together. My work commitments were strictly monitored - if I was meant to finish work by 5pm and I hadn’t texted her five minutes later to say I was on my way home, she would start ringing me. My clothes were judged according to how revealing she felt they were, and many items were for her eyes only. My phone calls to my family were limited to 20 minutes on a Sunday, and I had to repeat entire conversations to her verbatim after every call. The list goes on and on, but the final straw was when she decided I was allowed to sing at church but not anywhere else: not on a stage or at a show, for instance, which I wanted to do with all my heart.
Sometimes, we remember nuggets of wisdom long after they would have come in handy. When I first got together with Rachel, a friend of mine gave me a stern warning: she said I would always only be the supporting actor in Rachel’s movie, and that Rachel would one day become violent, putting my life in danger. I don’t believe in clairvoyance, but my friend’s prediction was spot-on. Pity I didn’t believe her.
The circumstances of our very traumatic separation included a whole night with Rachel waving a pistol around, eventual police involvement, and moving into a miraculously unoccupied flat a church friend offered me for as long as I needed it, for free. I owned nothing but my motorbike and my clothes. Rachel harassed me for months, regularly threatening suicide. I was not allowed any contact with either of the kids - this lasted for nine years, until Freddie turned 21 recently.
You may wonder what this chapter of my story has to do with trans rights…
Being who we really are is empowering, and not being able to is oppression. I cannot possibly understand what it feels like to be treated as a male if you know you’re female, or vice versa, or to have nightmares about being put into the wrong ward in hospital, or to need the loo and someone calling you out for going where they think you don’t belong. I don’t have the foggiest idea what all the possible scenarios are that this ruling affects, but I am listening and reading and learning. The only way in which I can personally relate with this at all is remembering what it felt like to have to pretend to be Rachel’s PA for all those years.
Thinking about identity always brings me back to who God says we are. God loves us. God rejoices over us. God keeps doing unimaginable things to bring us closer to God. Easter isn’t over when Easter Sunday ends. Whether your church tradition celebrates Jesus' resurrection for 40 days until his Ascension, or for 50 days until Pentecost when God gave us the Holy Spirit, hold on to Easter hope for as long as you can.
God knows exactly who you are and loves you so much that a part of God ripped away from the rest and paid the ultimate price.
To be closer to you.
Maya Angelou said: ‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.’
My prayer for my friends and family and church - and for this blog-space - is that we can encourage each other to be who we really are, and in doing that, showing people who God really is.
Wendy
