A Letter to My Grandmother
For as long as I could remember, you have been there. You have been almost omnipresent in my life. Present, but only at times as a person and mostly as a shade. A constant dark shadow of critique, betrayal, abandon, condemnation, and rejection.
I remember when I was 6, almost 7. My mother was murdered in 1996 (God rest the soul of my dearly departed mother, Debra Eileen Lynch), and what I went through as a child for the next year (physical abuse, being left in a burning house, sexual abuse, self harming) at the hands of my mother’s “closest friends.” I remember how my Step Grandpa, Bob, made the decision to step in. But you were always a woman to be reckoned with, and you’ve always had your way or no way. You gave caring for me a cursory, almost perfunctory try. And then, you sent me off as a ward of the Maryland Department of Social Services. You abandoned me.
You say this is because I was horribly behaved, sexually acting out, an angry child, violent, etc. But I was only 6. Did it never occur to you to spank my ass and then give me a hug? I mean, can you blame me for being fucked up? Look what the hell I had been through! I didn’t speak for almost 8 months after my mother’s murder and my abuse at the hands of the people who were supposed to care and provide for me in honor of my mother’s memory.
However, thanks to you, I was subjected to nearly being swallowed and destroyed, my soul laid wholly desolate, through my experiences as a ward of the state. I bounced from group home to group home, hospital to hospital, lock down unit to lock down unit. And each bit of abuse or rape I suffered broke me more. If I had told you, if I honestly sat down and told you what I went through during those 14 years, what people did to me, it would kill you on the spot. You would cry till your falsely humble face fell off, and your self righteous, godly pretentious soul would flee in pure torment of shame and horror.
And, I know you are fond of talking about how “unappreciated" you are and how much you were there for me. But to bear witness against you, my sister and I. Her story is similar, and your conspicuous absence yet religious oppression is another part of her story. I remember when I was in those places, maybe 2 or 3 times a year I would see you. You’d take me out for something to eat somewhere and buy me a few Gameboy games and then drop me back off, no matter how hard I cried and begged you to please let me come home. Could you not tell I was terrified, mortally terrified? Or didn’t you care? Didn’t you care that I had to go to the hospital from what those boys did to me, for what seemed like hours, when I was at Villa Maria? Didn’t I matter? I know the real answer.
And as I had gotten older and started running away from these places, could you really blame me for using my body to survive and get what I wanted? Hell, for about a decade people had been using my body without my consent to get what they wanted, so at least when I started escorting I was getting what I wanted. So how dare you mock me or hold me, alone, responsible that I ended up in prison for illegal escorting and pimping. You weren’t there! You didn’t even care! You could have saved me, but no. And I am so happy that you will have to answer for that before the throne of God.
Even recently, when I have needed you, you have let me down. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the phone and clothes you got me when I got out the prison and came here to the halfway house. But why won’t you let me come to DE? Why won’t you be a grandmother instead of a pastor? It’s like every time I have EVER needed you; you’ve turned you’re back. From what I’ve heard, you did this to my mother as well, which is why you had no relationship with her before she died. A fact which you regularly lament now. I wonder, if I were to die today, would you lament your glaringly same mistakes?
Instead of spending so much time praying against the sin at Rohobeth Beach, why don’t you focus on not being so mean, on helping your grandchildren and great grand children, and being a Christian with love in your heart instead of an elitist mentality? And I swear to God, my identity as a trans woman is not up for debate, it’s no longer even up for gentle discussion. My name is Christina or Chrissy. Call me by my dead name one more time, and I cannot honestly be held responsible for what I may say. Stop looking at me with a cosmopolitan blend of disgust, pity, and hatred.
I have always questioned why you couldn’t love me, REALLY love me for me. Is it really because I’m transsexual, because my “sin” offends you so much? Oh I know you’ll tell me, “like Jesus, I love the sinner but hate the sin.” My response? “Suuuuuuuuuure, grams!”
This is because I don’t believe you. You are the most self righteous, judgmental, mean, and ugly hearted person I know. You can’t even bring yourself to really love me and accept me, because you “won't put even my daughter’s only son before God.” I don’t think God would mind, though. I am certain he loves me more than you EVER even tried to. And I’ve realized, I don’t need you. I am stronger, more well forged then you could ever comprehend. I am unbroken, after facing more fire and tribulation than most people who live to be 70 ever experience. I have been through things that movies are made of, and memoirs are written about. I no longer require or want your protection, love, support, or anything. Because it is all so meaningless to me and frankly I’m exhausted from hoping you would be someone better, that you would someday love me and accept me. I have wanted too much from you. And so I am done being disappointed over you.
But even after all of this, I can still say that I love you. I love you because I’m supposed to. Yet I hate you too. I hate you because you have made me over the years. Isn’t that a conundrum? But I’m just done with you. I wish you the best for the remainder of your life, and I hope that you’ll be a better person before you die. I won’t get my hopes up, though, because you’ve been going pretty strong as a real piece of work for 68 years.
I will live my life for goodness, light, and love. Thanks for showing me who not to be.
By the way, I think you’re getting dementia because the NSA is not inviting you to “sexy parties" and sending you “pornographic materials.” And Christians aren’t under attack; they’re still leading the assault.
With cold regards,