Je Suis Charlie, Nous Sommes Charlie

For today, I am going to forget what I normally write about on this and my other blog--sort of.

In terms of content, this post will not resemble others I've written.  However, It will express concern for everything that makes this blog, and others, possible.  In fact, some of those things even make it possible for me to do the very thing I write about on this blog:  ride a bike.

You see, in some cultures, women aren't allowed to ride bicycles--or go to school, read, write, teach or do much of anything besides bear a man's children and submit to his demands.  In such places, someone like me doesn't have the right to be a woman--let alone a cyclist--at all.

That is the reason why I am writing today to express my solidarity with all of those people who rallied in my home town as well as London, Tokyo, Istanbul, Montreal, Berlin and many other cities around the world--and, of course, in France, most prominently in Paris.

I have lived in the City of LIght.  So have some people I've loved and with whom I've worked.  They've been native-born French people--some of ancient Gallic and Frankish heritage, others born to families who emigrated to France from other places in this world.  They've been Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and people who didn't adhere to any formal religion or philosophy, or who believed in nothing at all beyond this life.  They've been wealthy, poor and, mainly, in-between.  

The thing is, they all knew that their right to be any, all  or none of the things I've mentioned was protected under the laws of their country.  And, while some expressed resentment or condescension toward America--or, more precisely, toward our misconceptions or simple unawareness of our position in the world, they all have expressed respect, admiration and sometimes even wistfulness for the openness of our society and the generous spirit of Americans they've met. 

Demonstrators hold up pencils to express ther support for freedom of expression.

The rallies, like funerals and memorial services, are about grieving those who died in the attacks on the Chrlie Hebdo offices and the kosher supermarket in Paris.  But, just as important, they are a reminded of what we--I, the people I've mentioned, and everyone else--need to do:  to live, as the people we are, free to pursue our dreams, honor or values, to love those we love--and, always, to speak the truth, whether through simple facts, irony, images, humor or in some other way.  We can't let those who murdered seventeen Parisians during the past week take that liberty, that right, away from us.

Je suis Charlie.  Nous sommes Charlie. 

Une Parisienne Manquee

When I came back from living in Paris, family members, friends and other people asked what I did there.  A few asked what I thought about, what I felt, usually beginning or ending with, "Were you ever homesick?"

No matter how much you love a place, if it's not home, you will be homesick. Yes, I lived in Paris and even considered it my home for a time.  But there were still times when I thought about the bed in which I used to sleep, a favorite jacket I left in New Jersey, my grandmother, bike rides alone and with friends (Don't get me wrong:  I did some great rides in France.  I just couldn't forget the ones I did before them), my mother (and her lasagna!) and other people and things.

One thing I never told anybody, though, was something that occupied much of my imagination while I was there:  I pictured myself as a Parisienne, a woman of style and grace as well as substance in the City of Light.

So I felt as if I were looking at a manquee version of myself when I looked, again, at these images photographer Christer Stromholm captured in Place Blanche during the 1960's:

 

Les Amies de Place Blanche

Place Blanche in Paris is perhaps best known as the site of Le Moulin Rouge, where the can-can dance is said to have originated, at least in its present form.

Not so long ago, it was also--along with nearby Place Pigalle--part of the City of Light's red light district.   Blanche in particular was known for its transgendered prostitutes.  Most were working to save money for gender reassignment surgery.   However, they had as much of a chance of ending up in the bowels of La Sante as in George Burou's basement.  In the conservative atmosphere of Charles deGaulle's France, they were routinely arrested--and, as often as not, beaten and otherwise abused by the police--for the offense of being, according to the law of that time, les hommes habilles en femme en dehors du carneval.

In that milieu, Christer Stromholm did something that was almost as risky as living as one of those trans women:  He befriended tem.  However, he wasn't a social worker or miisionary.  He was a photographer, born in Stockholm, who moved to the Blanche district around the time de Gaulle returned to power and formed le Cinquieme Republique.  Stromholm stayed in Blanche for a decade and took some remarkable photographs, which will be on display at the International Center of Photography starting on 18 May.  I probably don't have to tell you that I plan to attend.

Until We Meet Again: The Weight of This Day

Am I projecting onto the rest of the world?


It seemed that everywhere I looked, people were ready to hibernate.  Windy, chilly, overcast days will do that to people, and to other living beings.  


In the ladies' room at my main job, I saw Debra, who has a job of some sort in the administrative offices.  I don't mean to disparage her or her work; I simply forget what, exactly, what her title is or what she does.  Then again, she's not the only one I've so mistreated in my memory.


Anyway, she said she noticed the weariness, too.  "I think people are feeling the weight of the world," she suggested.  "You know, with the economy and all of the other things that are happening, people are stressed out."


I thought about it.  "Well," I mused, "now we know why the 1930's are referred to as 'The Great Depression.'"


She tapped her chin.  "I never thought about that before."


"I didn't, either, until now."


In addition to the weight of the world, everyone seemed to have his or her personal burdens to a greater degree than usual.  Again, I might be projecting:  Having just lost a friend, I feel the weight of time and the even heavier load of ephemerality.  


Today Josette, one of Janine's sisters--whom I never before met-- wrote an e-mail to me.  I had written my feelings and impressions of Janine, and sent them to Marie-Jeanne and Diana, who sent them to Josette.  She told me that she read my message to at the service held for Janine in Pere Lachaise and everyone, including her, was moved by it.  That surprises me; after all, I was just expressing my feeling for two mutual friends.  And I was worried about how they'd take it, as I wrote it in French.  


I am fluent, or at least competent, in the language.  However, there are still some nuances and subtleties that I haven't got down, and possibly never will.  But I wrote my memory of Janine in French because, for one, she was so quintessentially French, in the most exasperating and delightful ways.  Even more to the point, at least for me, is that in my mind she represents France itself, or at least my experience of it.  Plus, I owe a good part of the skill I have in the language to her.


On some level--a selfish and solipsistic one, perhaps--I wonder whether I am going to "lose" France and Paris now that I've lost Janine.  I expect to go back some day, but of course it won't be the same.


Here is what I wrote:

Janine en fait le hereusement pour beaucoup des gens, incluis moi.  Elle en portait une force vitale de vie, et elle etait toujours genereuse.  Ma vie est meilleur apres j'en fait la conaissance de Nine.

Aujour d'hui, je suis tres desolee.  Et je veux faire une consolation pour tu, pour vous, pour tout les amis et famille de Janine.

Je n'en puis oublier la journee a Brighton Beach avec Nine, Marie Jeanne, Diana et Michelle.  C'etait une jour de hereusement pour moi.  Ma vie en fait changer, et Janine m'aider comprend beaucoup des choses.

J'espere reconnaitre (ou connaitre) bientot.  Jusqu'a cet temps, je veux faire assistance pour vous, si vous desirez.

Here's a rough translation:


{Janine brought much happiness to many people, including me.  She was a life force and was always generous.  My life is better for having met Nine. ("Nine" is her nickname, it's pronounced like "Nina.")


Today I am sorrowful.  And I want to console you, and all of Janine's family and friends.


I will not forget the day Nine, Marie Jeanne, Diana, Michele and I went to Brighton Beach. It was a very happy day for me.  My life was changing, and Janine was helping me to understand many things.


I hope that we will meet, or meet again.  Until then, I want to help you in any way I can.}


Josette says that she's planning to come here with Marie-Jeanne and Michele, possibly in the summer, and that she wants to meet me.  

Birthdays

The other day I mailed a birthday card to Marilynne's daughter.  She and I underwent our surgeries on the same day last year.  

If that day is our birthday, then I'm only about five hours older than she is.  Hmm...That sounds like the makings of some sort of science fiction story.   If any of you want to take the idea and run with it, be my guest:  I seriously doubt that I'll ever write science fiction.  I just don't think it's in me.


Anyway, in one sense, we were both born that day. If that's the case, how long was our gestation period?  Was it the time we had been living as female?  Our entire lives?


But today is what most people--as well as the laws of just about every jurisdiction in this world--would define as my birthday.  It is the date on which I came, a whole bunch of years ago, from my mother's body into this world.  I probably will always celebrate this date as my birthday, partly out of habit and, well, because it's the biggest national holiday of the country in which I was born and have spent most of my life.  It's a bit like being born on Bastille Day in France or Christmas in any country that celebrates it.  


The only times I wasn't in this country on the Fourth,  I was in France.  Three times I was in Paris; the other time I was in a town called Auch in the southwest.  Unless you've been there or know something about French history, you've probably never heard of it.  I ended up there on my birthday ten years ago in the middle of a bicycle tour I took through the Pyrenees.   It's a lovely place, and if you should go there, you should certainly go to la Cathedrale Sainte-Marie.  It may very well have the best acoustics of any place of worship in the world.  It certainly has one of the best organs and choirs.    The singers were rehearsing that day.  I got into a conversation with a sweet-faced alto-soprano who was about twenty years older than I was.   Even before she talked, I could sense her enthusiasm and passion for that cathedral and for her music.  


When she asked where I came from, I said, "Les Etats-Unis."


"Eh...Votre jour d'independence."


"Oui.  Et mon anniversaire."


Her already bright eyes perked up.  "Voulez-vous une chanson speciale?"  With a smile, I nodded, and she and the choir gave a little impromptu concert for an audience of an American cycling solo in France on his birthday and his country's day of independence.


Whatever my birthday is, I believe I have an interesting heritage.  And I feel honored to share at least something with Marilynne's daughter.

Losses, Actual and Possible

Yesterday and today felt more autumnal than spring-like.  This is amazing, when you consider that we had summery weather only a week ago.  It's supposed to be chilly--at least for this time of year--for the rest of the week.  


I'm tired, again.  After my classes, I had two long meetings and then students wanted help with one thing and another. And I would have spent even longer than  I did at work--As it was, I was there for nearly another five hours after my obligations for the day ended!--had I not simply decided that I needed to leave.  For that, it looks like I'm going to be subjected to a furlough.  So I'm supposed to take a unilateral 20 percent pay cut for doing the same work.  And my bills won't decrease by 20 percent.


On top of that, I found out why I haven't heard from Janine and Marie-Jeanne for a long time.  They are two friends of mine in Paris.  When they came to New York in the summer of 2003, they, our friend Diana and I took a lunch and shopping trip to Brighton Beach.  It was my first "girls' day out" and, as Diana said tonight, none of them knew what to expect:  I had "come out" to them over the phone and by e-mail, but they had only seen me as Nick, not as Justine.  Diana, recalling that day, said, "I said to myself, 'I hope she's pretty.'  Then, when I heard you were having your surgery, I said, 'I hope she doesn't become prettier than me."


"Don't worry.  You're safe," I deadpanned.


"I'm not so sure about that."


"Well, I'll never be upset with you for being better-looking than I am.  You're a wonderful person."  I could almost see her blush over the phone.


That banter was just an interlude in a litany of bad news.  Janine's has gotten much worse since the last time I talked to her or Diana.  Janine had a tumor which grew malignant.  Then she had a stroke back in the fall.  She had to move from her apartment to a hospital to a nursing home.  Of course, she's angry:  She is one of the most independent and creative people I've ever known.  Now she can't even go outside by herself and can't always remember people.  


"It must be so hard on her," I said.

 Diana agreed.  "But," she added, " it's really hard on her sister and the people around her.  It's hard to see her that way."

"It hurts just to think of her that way," I lamented.  "Whenver I saw her, I felt as if I were in the presence of life itself."  


"All we can do is hope.  But things don't look good."


Still, we hope.  Maybe, just maybe, we tell ourselves.