Charlie is the county transsexual. Fact is he is also the
county drunk, ex-con, and meth addict.
Disowned by his parents as a teenager, he dropped out of school, lived
on the streets of Keene ,
ran afoul of the law, dabbled in unsavory social behaviors, and was
incarcerated for five years. Somehow he got
the state to pay for his sex reassignment surgery. Charlie is now Charelene. (That's not Charelene above, but the resemblance is close enough for it to be her brother/sister).
Charelene’s new persona hasn't improved her social graces. Unemployed, unhygienic, homeless; sporting a perennial five o’clock shadow owing to her lacking the funds to maintain her hormone treatments; under nourished, and devoid of any sense of fashion or make-up artistry, Charelene is the poster girl for destitute. She is a veritable pariah to the community; the kind of person that would prompt a stray dog to cross the street to avoid contact with her.
Thanksgiving afternoon, as my wife was doing her thing in the kitchen, and I and my younger son, up for the traditional feast with his fiancée, watched football on TV there was a knock at the back door. Shit, unannounced company on Thanksgiving. This can’t be good. I padded to the back door.
There in all her glory was Charelene looking her Thanksgiving worst. She was accompanied by a tallish, blue eyed, long haired guy with a soft countenance in a pristine white robe. His entire being had a glowing radiance emanating from his body. I recognized Him immediately from the traditional 19th century white Anglo Saxon image of the non-Jewish concept of Jesus.
“We’re here for Thanksgiving, my son.” Jesus spoke with an upbeat lilt to his voice.
I looked the pair up and down for a nanosecond. “YOU’RE welcome to join us for dinner, but we don’t serve HIS kind here.” I snarled.
My reply caused a pained expression to come over Jesus’ calm demeanor. I could tell I was in for a sermon.
“My son, I know you to be a non-believer. I understand that you reject all manner of superstition and gods, me included, as being imaginary; that the cause of faith is rooted in man’s inability to divest himself from ancient myth devised as societal control and to answer that which his unscientific mind could not answer.
Yes, I know that you know religion and belief have been the cause of great injustice and suffering. I accept that you can cite centuries of acts of brutality, intolerance, genocide, and irrational obstacles to science, reason, and people’s pursuit of happiness perpetrated by my blind faith zombie like followers. And even as I stand before you, I know that you are rational enough to know you’re dreaming my presence, or that it’s the result of celebratory liquid refreshment hallucination.
But I have always perceived you to be a man of compassion, a person of ethics; someone who has been non-judgmental when it comes to being charitable to those in need. For often you have said morality and goodness towards ones fellow man does not depend on a boogie man’s dictates or threat of eternal punishment. That the thinking can be good without God because empathy is a byproduct of evolution and that the suffering of others does not serve society but diminishes it.”
At about this point in his soliloquy Jesus was getting himself worked up. He took on the persona of God the Father made popular in Michelangelo’s painting. His voice rose to a thundering crescendo as he lifted his right hand above his head, index finger pointed skyward.
“Thus, verily I say unto you that by turning away this poor soul, this ‘least among us,’ this homeless, downtrodden, rejected and dejected, impoverished, and put upon denizen of society it gives lie to your oft touted goodness without God.” His last three words were accentuated by dark and stormy eyes that glared at me below a knitted brow , exuding condemnation and accusation of hypocrisy.
I glared back: “I was TALKING to
Charlene, asshole!”
Charelene’s new persona hasn't improved her social graces. Unemployed, unhygienic, homeless; sporting a perennial five o’clock shadow owing to her lacking the funds to maintain her hormone treatments; under nourished, and devoid of any sense of fashion or make-up artistry, Charelene is the poster girl for destitute. She is a veritable pariah to the community; the kind of person that would prompt a stray dog to cross the street to avoid contact with her.
Thanksgiving afternoon, as my wife was doing her thing in the kitchen, and I and my younger son, up for the traditional feast with his fiancée, watched football on TV there was a knock at the back door. Shit, unannounced company on Thanksgiving. This can’t be good. I padded to the back door.
There in all her glory was Charelene looking her Thanksgiving worst. She was accompanied by a tallish, blue eyed, long haired guy with a soft countenance in a pristine white robe. His entire being had a glowing radiance emanating from his body. I recognized Him immediately from the traditional 19th century white Anglo Saxon image of the non-Jewish concept of Jesus.
“We’re here for Thanksgiving, my son.” Jesus spoke with an upbeat lilt to his voice.
I looked the pair up and down for a nanosecond. “YOU’RE welcome to join us for dinner, but we don’t serve HIS kind here.” I snarled.
My reply caused a pained expression to come over Jesus’ calm demeanor. I could tell I was in for a sermon.
“My son, I know you to be a non-believer. I understand that you reject all manner of superstition and gods, me included, as being imaginary; that the cause of faith is rooted in man’s inability to divest himself from ancient myth devised as societal control and to answer that which his unscientific mind could not answer.
Yes, I know that you know religion and belief have been the cause of great injustice and suffering. I accept that you can cite centuries of acts of brutality, intolerance, genocide, and irrational obstacles to science, reason, and people’s pursuit of happiness perpetrated by my blind faith zombie like followers. And even as I stand before you, I know that you are rational enough to know you’re dreaming my presence, or that it’s the result of celebratory liquid refreshment hallucination.
But I have always perceived you to be a man of compassion, a person of ethics; someone who has been non-judgmental when it comes to being charitable to those in need. For often you have said morality and goodness towards ones fellow man does not depend on a boogie man’s dictates or threat of eternal punishment. That the thinking can be good without God because empathy is a byproduct of evolution and that the suffering of others does not serve society but diminishes it.”
At about this point in his soliloquy Jesus was getting himself worked up. He took on the persona of God the Father made popular in Michelangelo’s painting. His voice rose to a thundering crescendo as he lifted his right hand above his head, index finger pointed skyward.
“Thus, verily I say unto you that by turning away this poor soul, this ‘least among us,’ this homeless, downtrodden, rejected and dejected, impoverished, and put upon denizen of society it gives lie to your oft touted goodness without God.” His last three words were accentuated by dark and stormy eyes that glared at me below a knitted brow , exuding condemnation and accusation of hypocrisy.
3 comments:
You forgot to give us the most important detail - who won the football game on TV???????
;)
Ah yes, if there is anyone the religionists hate more than gay people it's transgendered people. Having worked with two transgendered colleagues so far I have seen the hardships they suffer at the hand of Christian bigots first hand. As far as I am concerned, it is part of the random variability of nature that we observe in all sorts of scenarios. Acceptance of the transgendered community has a long way to go. I would say that their cause is about where the gay rights movement was about ten years ago. It doesn't come as a surprise that your example is destitute and has a shady past. The opportunities and acceptance that everyone else just takes for granted are not there for transgendered people. It would be like walking around with a great big tattoo on your forehead saying give me a wide berth.
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