I feel like, quite possibly, I owe an apology to Kardashian lovers everywhere. All of you “Real Housewives” of what-the-hell-ever county watchers that I’ve made fun of over the years, can throw it back in my face.
I have found a reality show that I am addicted to.
Admittedly, I am not a television lover. I’ve only owned three television sets in my whole entire adult life and my mother bought them all for me. Honestly, with a 2,300 square foot house full of crap, I had, like, a 23 inch in the living room.
Grown men used to walk in and say, “Are you kidding me, you don’t have a television in this thing?”
I don’t. Because I only watch sports, and I generally watched them at a bar, or on my small screens. And when I quit drinking, I started watching sports at my Memaw’s.
That’s the only reason I really ever had a boyfriend — that they always have better television than me.
In fact, Brad Paisley wrote a song about it. It’s called, “You Sure Need a Man Around Here.”
And when I didn’t have a boyfriend with a big screen, I had host of guy friends who did — like Zipper in college and Redwing later on. You know, the slew of guy friends who have great televisions but no furniture. The opposite of me.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete television hater. I can watch Law & Order marathons, and I can spend days watching DVDs. But they’re always documentary political dramas or Disney themed sports films. I’m the girl that watches three hour PBS documentaries on YouTube. It’s long since been revealed to me that my entertainment mimics that of a 70 year old man — like, Charlie Rose, baseball, and Dateline.
You can take the Chunky Brown out of this world, but you can’t take the Chunky Brown out of the girl.
Ok, I must admit, while watching ballet online, I accidentally came across a few episodes of “Dance Moms,” and instantly hated myself for even clicking on that so-called entertainment that’s nothing but scripted child abuse.
But while doing so, I found Jazz Jennings. Also known as, the new television love of my life.
In my head — y’all know that world — she’s my newly adopted homegirl. Which means pretend friend. Ha!
I have no shame in admitting that I have watched every episode of her two seasons that’s available on YouTube, and I’ve watched some of them twice. I watched the Barbara Walters special with her 5 times. And I spent roughly the next 48 hours watching every documentary on transgender children that I can find. The girl who probably has 1,500 books in her house, now has a new subject that I’m obsessed with: gender dysphoria.
I’ve been studying the science behind it. While we don’t know the exact cause, there’s several studies and one of the leading ones suggest that a hormonal imbalance in the womb can cause the gender imprint on the brain to be different from the gender imprint that’s reflected in your genitalia. Of course the haters online with abusive comments on the ‘I Am Jazz’ episode uploads call it a “mental disorder,” but even conservatives like D. Phil recognize that gender dysphoria is an actual thing. We don’t know the science behind, it we just know that it exists. For example, science tells me that I’m different. I was born with different legs than everybody else. But in my brain, I have never felt different. What’s right: my brain or my bones?
And who gets to decide?
I can do everything you can, and yet to some (white trash redneck haters), they still look at me and see what?
A “midget”… right?
Maybe so, but we all know this midget can kick your overweight and unattractive ass.
So back to class…
What’s right? Between the legs or between the ears? Why do you get to decide that the gender reflected in one’s external organ should determine who the person is and not the brain? When science tells us, for reasons we haven’t figured out yet, that transgendered individuals are born with a brain that’s different than their genitalia. That that is an actual, medically recognized, thing.
Why does society get to tell trans folks what they “have” to be, instead of what medical science tells those individuals that they are?
And which is right? Who decides?
I was born with extra fingers. But the world, or society, told me that I shouldn’t have that, so the doctors whacked them off and I went about my way. Who’s to say that the extra finger wasn’t right? The world did, so it was removed. The world doesn’t get to determine what trans people have to be anymore because doctors, and science, are speaking out.
But, unlike the transgendered community, Medical Science does recognize that no, I shouldn’t, medically speaking, have had the extra fingers I was born with. So why can’t science determine that some females should not have had the penis they were born with because their brains developed differently?
And, shocking to some proudly ignorant bigots I’m sure, some individuals are born with both sexes .
I don’t know how it works, I’m not going to say I do, because I’m not a doctor. I just know how to read their words. And I know, without hesitation, that I have fallen in love with Jazz Jennings. Partly because her family is composed of better individuals than most of us will ever be, and partly because she reminds me of my own family. I feel like she could be related to me — she looks like it with her dark hair and dark eyes — because I feel like she could be related to all of us. That’s part of her appeal, she’s that relatable and loveable.
Mostly, I just know I have a new role model. If you don’t know who Jazz Jennings and her family are, get to know them. This is one reality show worth watching.
Note: I fully expect my cyberstalkers — hello, Misty Dantico, Toni and Chris Woodard, Joey Hilliard — to repost this in a pathetic, whitetrashed attempt to cowardly mock me where I can’t read it (like we’re not almost 40 years old), but much like my brave homegirl, Jazz Jennings, I’m straight up out of fucks about what uneducated inbreds think about me.