Another Anniversary!

Yesterday this blog turned seven years old.

And I turned six.  That is to say, six years ago yesterday, I underwent my surgery. 

My, how time flies!

I'm Three; This Blog Is Four. What's Next?

Today I am three years old.  And this blog is four.


The second sentence probably makes sense to you.  Maybe the first one doesn't.  What I mean, of course, is that I had my surgery three years ago today.

If you've been reading this blog, you've probably noticed that my posts are less frequent.  I guess there's less to talk about, at least in terms of my own gender identity and reassignment, as time goes on.  Ironically, I find that the few occasions on which I talk about those things are with certain people at work, and in other academic settings. Most people who encounter me will never see me again and, as far as they know, I'm a middle-aged woman.  Which, of course, is what I am.  On the other hand, people who have spent lots of time in school--especially if their field of study is related to gender, gender studies or feminism--have to fit me into some sub-sub-sub-category or other.  


It seems that, in academic circles, more people than I'd expected are reading this blog.  At least, that's what I've been told.  So, every once in a while, I'll bump into some professor or researcher who's not connected with any institution in which I've worked, and whom I've never before met, and he or she will say that he or she has heard about me.


But once I'm outside of an academic setting, my past hardly seems to matter at all.  I suppose that if I apply for something and a background check is done, or even if I'm merely asked whether I've ever gone by another name, I'll have to explain where and what I've been.  I suppose--or I hope, anyway--that it won't be seen as negatively as having been convicted of a felony.  Not that I would know anything about that!


I have been volunteering with a women's organization, about which I'll say more in a future post.  I told its founder and officers about my past.  Even though I hadn't expected it to be an issue for them,  I figured it would be better for them to hear it from me than someone else.  Also, I figured that if they didn't want a trans woman in their midst (which, by the way, some women's groups don't), it would be better to find out before I got involved.  But, as the founder of the organization said, somewhat wryly, "We're not the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival."


It was exactly the sort of thing I'd wanted when I started my transition.  I not only knew it was possible; it was what I expected.  So, even though I knew that there were people who were like the organizers of MWMF, there were also people like the founder of the organization.  And there are many other women who've never heard of the Festival, or simply don't care about it.  I know, because I've come to know some of them, and they have friends, sisters, mothers, aunts, grandmothers and other women in their lives who share their feelings.  And most of them don't, or wouldn't, care about my past--or would only care about it to the extent that we like to know where and what the people in our lives have come from.  


As one of them said, it's not easy being a woman, so she has all the more respect for someone who has embraced her femaleness, and chosen to live it. In the end, that's all there really is to what I've done during these past few years, from going into therapy, taking hormones, changing my name, living in my new identity, getting my surgery, starting this blog and doing any number of other things.  


It may lead me to start another blog.  If I do, it will probably be at least somewhat related to this blog.  (How could it not be?  Even my other blog, Midlife Cycling, is--at least to some extent.)  And it might lead me to other projects and work which I can't yet conceive.  All I know is that whatever I do, I have no choice but to live as the woman I am.  And I wouldn't make any other choice, even if I could.

Number 500

So...It looks like this is my 500th post on this blog. It's just a number, I know. But I didn't envision writing so many posts. Actually, I had no idea of how many I would write. After a while, I found myself writing in this blog more or less every day...or unconsciously, then consciously, trying to. Now I feel as if I've missed something when a day goes by without my writing in this blog--unless, of course, there are extenuating circumstances and what follows them!

I also didn't know I would keep up this blog for as long as I have. I had planned on recounting the year leading up to my surgery; I wasn't thinking about what would follow. But, once I had my surgery, I couldn't imagine not continuing this blog, at least for the foreseeable future, however long that is.

You might say this has become my ritual or addiction. It's certainly better than others I've had.

Has keeping this blog changed me? I'm not so sure that much can change me, at least a whole lot, at this rather late date in my life. Perhaps I have changed incrementally in some way that one changes when one records one's experiences. Writing (or painting or otherwise making something of) them does change a person in small, or subtle, ways because, if nothing else, one has at least some sort of power, or at least control, over the experience. Plus, the record of the experience can't, and shouldn't, match a memory of it.

And what did I do today? I made crepes, ate them, went for a short bike ride, read and came home. On my way back from the ride, I took a slight detour (one block) to stop in a bodega in which I hadn't stopped in months--since some time before my surgery. I used to stop there sometimes when I was riding to or from work. It's cramped, and almost completely devoid of charm. There are two reasons to stop there: To pick up a pack of gum, candy or popcorn, and to visit a resident who's even friendlier--at least to me--than the proprietor.

That resident's name is Kiki. I'm not sure of how it's spelled; that's how the proprietors pronounce her name. She's very pretty--and could be Charlie's sister. Yes, she's gray and white, just like he is. And she's shy, at least according to the prorprietor, but very friendly toward me.

Don't believe that cats don't have memory: She recognized me immediately. And every time I was about to leave, she brushed against my ankles. I could almost hear her wondering, "Where have you been?" and insisting that I promise to come back.

Also don't believe that cats don't have any intelligence: They know a friend when they see one! Just ask Charlie and Max.

All I need is a few more days of weather like we had today: It was still chilly, but not as cold as it's been. And there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. As far as I'm concerned, it's about as good as a biking day as one can have at this time of year. And I felt good: a little tired afterward, but fine. I see how out of shape I am, but I know I can improve my conditioning with some regular riding.

After all, I want to be able to do at least another 500 posts--and have some material for them.