Georgia Today

You learn something, however insignificant it might seem, every day. Or so I've heard.

So, what did I learn today? No, not The Meaning of Life or the key to the Unified Theory of Creation (if indeed there is such a thing!). How to make a kajillion dollars with my laptop? If only...

Today I learned that this date is the birthday of someone I've loved, hated and now love more than I ever did before. No, I'm not talking about a family member, friend or former lover. In fact, I have never met this person; I know about this person only from what she created.

OK, so now I've narrowed it down to 51 per cent of the population. (Why is that considered a "minority?" All right, I know I'm not the first one to ask that question.) So who is this grande dame (I've narrowed things a bit more) of whom I speak?

Of course, she's none other than Georgia O'Keeffe. Back when I first encountered her work--in a book--I loved the way she used the colors and shapes she saw around her. I hadn't seen anything like it; I still haven't.

You might say that when I saw this painting--a reproduction, anyway--I understood, for the first time, something that now seems entirely elementary to me: The purpose of art is not only to represent how something looks; it is to convey the way something feels. It took me many more years to understand just how rigorous the work that underlies such an enterprise is. To show how something feels in a way that's entirely yours yet reaches people whom you'll never meet: Really, what else is there for an artist to do?

Plus...How can I say this?: No artist (at least no artist of whom I know anything) is more essentially female than O'Keeffe. Many people have labelled her work as "ultra-feminine," as often as not in a pejorative way, because of paintings like "Pink Tulip," the one I've linked. I made that same mistake for a time in my life, which is what led to my disenchantment with her work. That was also the time in my life when I found myself hating--or at least ridiculing--all of the Impressionist painters except for Cezanne, Mozart and just about all of the Russian composers--and Pink Floyd. And, for good measure, let's not forget Henry James and John Milton.

Now, I'm not saying all of those artists, composers and painters were "feminine," whatever that means. They simply began to make me feel things that made me uncomfortable for feeling. I'm not talking about my gender identity or sexuality, though some would argue that the discomfort I felt with the works of all those artists I mentioned had to do with my discomfort with myself. That, as reductive and glib as it seems, is a pretty good, if not complete, explanation.

So what reminded me of Georgia O'Keeffe and the fact that today is her birthday? Well, Edward Byrne's blog, One Poet's Notes, paid homage to her. And he posted a reproduction of "Red Rust Hills" along with his and another writer's musings about her and her work.

It seems like a particularly appropriate piece for this date, the fifteenth of November, which feels--even on a day as mild as today has been--most like the date on which the season seems to turn from being a segue out of summer and the beginning of the descent into winter. Is it ironic--or appropriate, or simply a coincidence--that Georgia O'Keeffe was born on this date?

Miss Manners I'm Not

Did some walking today and I'm tired now. But at least it stimulated my senses and my mind and gave me some badly-needed exercise.

Along the way, I had an interesting encounter in Bake Way on Broadway. Sometimes I stop there for a snack and/or to use the bathroom. I came in for the latter, but I knew I'd pick up one of their red velvet cupcakes on the way out.

Well, a very pregnant young woman entered immediately behind me. I really needed to go at that moment (I'm still getting used to my diminished bladder capacity!) but, because she got the attention of the young woman behind the counter, she got the key.

She extended her arm toward me. "Here." She tried to pass the key from her hand to mine.

"You go first," I commanded.

"Thank you, Miss."

Now, when I was living as male, the situation would have been more straightforward: She would've gone in ahead of me. And I don't think she would've offered to let me use the bathroom before her.

I found myself thinking about a situation I encountered a few months ago. I'd just gotten on the bus to go to work. I was carrying a tote bag with some books and papers in it: Nothing that would give my pre-op self a second thought, much less difficulty.

Yet an older (at least she seemed to be) black woman who looked rather tired offered me her seat. I was about to politely refuse when something in that woman's expression told me that she really, for whatever reason, wanted to give me her seat and I couldn't, or at least shouldn't, refuse.

Nonetheless, it felt odd, as you can imagine. I'm still getting used to men who open doors and offer you their seats and to use the bathroom ahead of them. But I'm not sure that I'll grow accustomed to other women doing those things for me.

And even if I were to live a few more lifetimes as a woman, I'll probably still stumble through any situation in which a pregnant woman offers to let me use a bathroom ahead of her.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever master female etiquette. I didn't always do so well with male etiquette. But I've learned things that make less sense.

Another Fall, Again?

Another cold, blustery day. Most of the trees are bare now; the remaining leaves swirl and rustle, echoing the last flickering of a flame.

And I wonder now about my job, as lots of people are, although my concern is different. I was observed by a senior prof three weeks ago. Two days earlier, I observed an adjunct prof. I--and I assume the other faculty members--received a notice saying that we had to submit our observation report within a week of the observation. That's what I did, but the prof who observed me hasn't.

But that, in and of itself, is not the problem. Here's what's bothering me: A few days after the observation, this prof told me my class was "really good" and he was "glad" that I was "teaching a basic skill" rather than "having them talk about their feelings." But when I saw him yesterday, he apologized, then said, "Well, I have to go back and look at my notes."

Cady Ann, the secretary, says not to "sweat it." She says I worry too much. But what am I supposed to think? Plus, I know I'm under all kinds of scrutiny this semsester, and if I were to get a poor, or even a mediocre or merely good observation, I might not be reappointed. Then what?

I know Cady Ann and other people think I'm a worrywart and try to pacify me. But they don't realize that I had one evaluator tell me to my face that my class was fine, then slam me on the report. That professor also took longer than normal to submit her report. And, after my transition, I went back to a former boss, looking for work. He said "there were problems" with my work; that I was "erratic." Well, for one thing, I'd had nothing but very good and excellent reports. (I guess I always had to be either excellent or very good. ) And, for another. he himself praised my work when I was working for him.

Unfortunately, the academic world is full of people who will tell you something one day, then its exact opposite, or something that simply contradicts it, the next day. Is it any wonder that so many of our students are put off? They live lives in which whatever worked today might not work tomorrow, and parents, guardians and other people who are in their lives today are gone tomorrow, for no apparent reason. They see the college as another place that has the dysfunction and is run by the seemingly fickle fate of the homes and neighborhoods from which they come.

All right. If Cady Ann wants to call me a worrywart and you want to call me something more clinical or vulgar, well, I won't protest. After all, I don't want anything that has even the slightest possibility of keeping me from getting my surgery, or that could cloud life after it. My original plan was to keep a low profile this year; things seem not to have worked that way. Of course, being visible makes you a target, which is what I didn't want. Then again, I haven't been trying to gain notice, except perhaps in a professional way.

Then again, I suppose everything I'm doing and experiencing could have positive outcomes; after all, knowing that you've accomplished something--which is a distinct possibility for this year--usually leaves a good feeling. And that wouldn't be a bad way to end this school year and come to my surgery, would it?

I hope for those things. But for now, there are waiting, worrying along with the hoping, if not believing. Hoping and believing don't come as naturally to me as worrying does, but, well, what else can I do?

And then there is the end of this fall. Or so it seems. One more season gone in my current life. It's been an intense, both in the best and worst senses, time. Which is good, even beautiful. I must admit, I am feeling a little sad because I know I won't hold on to as much of this as I would have tried to keep if I'd had times like these earlier in my life. Why? Well, because I've been busy, and moving forward. Of course both of those things are good, and good for me. But I also wonder whether I'm losing some part of myself.

Then again, being backward- rather than forward-looking has never left me saner, happier or in any other way better. But it's what I did for so much of my life. I'm still learning to live with hope, if not belief, if only because the past is less and less of an option for me. Somehow I think it has to do with my gender transition. I don't know why, but I think women don't have as much of an option of living in--or yearning for--the past as much as men do. It may have to do with the fact that many women give up their names--and lives that went along with them--when they get married. Even when they don't, there's still an unwritten, unspoken expectation that they will follow their husbands.


But I also think there's something more basic, possibly hormonal, that I can't explain. I mean, why is it that the audience for O'Reilly, Hannity and Colmes, Rush Limbaugh and Fox (Faux) News consists mainly of men, mostly past a certain age, but also younger ones who think they're entering a world in which women, blacks, gays, and whomever else you can think of, usurped some of the privileges they believe their fathers or grandfathers had at one time.

In other words, they see a fall coming and they don't want to give up their garden, whatever's growing in it. Do words like entitlement and perogative ring a bell?

Giving up whatever certainties one had in one's life is always difficult. I just wish I could do it more gracefully. And worry less, like everyone says I should.