Whispers of Resistance
The earliest memory I have of singing is when I belted out the OBEDIENCE song in Sunday School. As a youth and young adult I took high school and college courses on submission and a woman’s purpose. I heard demands bellowed from the pulpits of churches, read elaborations on proper obedience in one book after another, retracted in the wave of hot breath from religious leaders declaring their authority. Yes, I am thoroughly acquainted with the topic of submission, and yet still there were whispers of resistance all along the way. Whispers that carried me and eventually set me free.
Fundamentalism shaped every part of my life from birth to the age of 23. I was assigned female at birth, living my early life as a woman within an active hub of fundamentalism in the United States. Fundamentalists are a wide and diverse sect that cherish their individual group autonomy. They teach strict, unwavering obedience, complete submission to male authority, and believe one of the greatest threats to our nation is the LGBTQ population. Most fundamentalists also agree that separation from this corrupt world is essential to gaining favor with God.
To build the walls of isolation, religious authorities will dictate a long list of varied rules that are meant to separate followers from the world. Rules such as: abstaining from outside music, movies, or entertainment, discarding ‘worldly’ clothing for god’s approved apparel, avoiding ‘worldly’ gatherings, terminology, and culture, and endless other directives for living.
It is always interesting to me that the movement of unquestioning obedience relies so heavily on teaching resistance to conformity. We are taught not to conform even while we are being constructed perfectly to fit the movement’s molds. I’m not sure what else could come from such a thing aside from the cognitive dissonance that inevitably arises. While being forced into submission, I felt the beat of resistance just beneath the surface of all that we did.
It takes a lot of guts to walk into a store today wearing a prairie dress, or a hijab, or a kapp. It takes a lot of guts to show up to six flags in a floor length pleated skirt. It takes a lot of guts to walk up to strangers on the street and ask them if you can share the good news! Only to have them politely request that you “F*** off”! It takes a lot of guts to lead the prayer group or after school program at a secular institution. It takes a lot of guts to be separate from mainstream society.
And also, it takes a lot of guts to sit in a room full of young people swaying and worshiping while you feel nothing. It takes a lot of guts to question an authority figure as you wonder if there's anyone safe to confide in. It takes a lot of guts to hide one's identity so they can remain safe as they live in an environment that actively hates them. It takes a lot of guts to be different.
And nothing taught me how to be different better than fundamentalism did. I remember walking into stores in my long skirt and baggy top, making sure no hint of a figure could be shown, keeping my head up and eyes forward as people unabashedly stared at me. I’d have a similar experience again later in life early into my transition as a transgender man. At times, I feel like I’ve been dumped from one goldfish bowl to another.
Living my youth as a woman in an adverse spiritual environment, I felt constantly on display to the outside world. A relic of a time past who was out of place in this modern world. Living today as an openly transgender man, I again feel constantly on display to the outside world. A vestige of a distant world that is clawing for a place in this one. Yet the whispers of resistance continue to carry me through.
The whispers first swirled when I was a child and worried that my friend wouldn’t get into heaven. Everyone said that if he did not adopt our teachings then he would go to hell, but I just couldn’t accept that. Not my God. My God wouldn’t send him to hell. The whispers swirled again as I helped lay out my brother's suit for church on Sunday and wished so badly that I had my own. The whispers roared when I insisted to my mother “I don’t want to be a girl, I want to be a boy!”. But she dismissed my outburst, and the roar was dampened, returning to whispers.
When our religious leader furiously admonished the women in the church and forbid them from having bible studies without a man present, I clutched my bible to my chest and thought “No, they can’t have this too”. And when I headed into my first gender affirming surgery despite the pleas from relatives who told me this medical procedure was a sin, I clutched a hand to my chest and thought “No, this body is mine”.
I am a child of resistance who was taught not to conform to the standards and expectations of this world but instead to find my inner spiritual self. And I did. Finally realizing the problem has never been that I did not know myself, the problem has always been that I was not meant to be seen. Standing silently, in loose clothing, meek and quiet, obediently following orders, the calls for cultural rebellion that guided my leaders were not meant to be heard by me. And yet each time I took a step outside the line, I felt the whispers grow stronger. Courage grew with every act of defiance and soon I was marching to the beat of my own resistance. I am not here to conform to this world but to heal and transform.
Evan Jones is the the founder and executive director of The Vashti Initiative.