Looking At My Vagina Again

Early this evening, I got home from a bike ride I took to Point Lookout, via Rockaway Beach.  After feeding my cats and myself, I dilated.  


Nearly two years have passed since my surgery.  So I suppose I was expecting, to the extent that I was thinking about it, that my vagina to change in some way. I just wasn't sure of how it would.  


Maybe my memory of what my vagina looked like in the days and weeks immediately after my surgery has been distorted.  But I seem to recall it as more linear and vertical:  the folds surrounding the cavity seemed to cascade in layers of rosy-colored lines.  


So, perhaps it is only against that memory that my vagina seems to be taking on a more ovular shape, with the folds around it rippling and curving in arcs from it.  For all I know, the shape was more like that from the beginning and I just didn't notice or have any way of comparing it.  


Whether or not that has actually happened, I feel as if that part of my body has taken on the feminine shape I've always wanted.  It looks more and more like other vaginas I've seen.  No, I'm not going to say exactly how many I've seen, or how I came to see them. After all, this is, ahem, an educational blog!


I don't know whether or how my vagina will change again.  I suppose that it will, if for no other reason than I will.  It seems like the surgery, like taking hormones and everything else that came before it, was "just the beginning," as they say.

OK Now

Yesterday I bumped into somebody I hadn't seen in about two years.  Suzanne and I used to work together; now she's working for herself.  She seems happier--or, at least more "centered", to steal from the lexicon of the so-called New Age movement.  

Some of our colleagues thought she was ditzy.  Truth is, she is, at least about tedious, repetitive tasks--which, I've learned, are the ones you have to do well if you want to win favor with superiors and, often, peers.

But she is far more perceptive in other ways than her detractors could ever dream of being.  And, she does have a heart, even if it leads her to minor excesses.

So I wasn't surprised at her reaction when I mentioned that I've had my operation since I last saw her. Her face took on an expression I hadn't seen before:  a combination of joy and concern.  "That's great!," she exclaimed.  Then, literally in the next breath, "Are you OK?", as if I'd been through a long, painful night.   When I assured her that I've been fine, in some ways I've never been better, she gave me a long hug.  

Afterward, her question--"Are you OK?"--seemed even stranger to me than it did when she asked it.  Although the surgery, like any other, had risks, I felt that whatever I was enduring was less treacherous than just about anything I'd experienced before it.  Some of that, of course, had to do with the trust I had in Dr. Bowers and the staff at the hospital.  But the emotional distress I felt nearly every day before I started my transition was much worse, and in some ways more dangerous, because I had no idea of how or whether any of it would end. And I never saw the purpose of it:  I'm not so sure that it built my "character."  On the other hand, I at least knew why I was undergoing my transition and surgery, and had some idea of how to achieve what I wanted to achieve by becoming Justine.

Yes, Suzanne, I am OK.  I'm still learning about this new landscape I'm navigating, but it makes sense.  And, as you said, We have to keep on learning how to be ourselves.   Yes!  Thank you, Suzanne.

Along The Way

The strange thing about goals is that, so often, when you reach them, they turn out not to be goals after all.  You realize that they were just landmarks or mileage markers.  Or they were just check-points in which you had to get some imprimatur or another before proceeding.

I'm thinking now about the stages of my transition, and my early life.  I mean what most people would call my current or post-transition life.  Before I came here, taking hormones, getting my name changed, and various other events leading up to my surgery, seemed like destinations at which I'd arrived.  Of course, I always had a longer-term vision of how I wanted to live, as a woman.  But each of those events and accomplishments seemed, at least for the moment, to be like grand train or bus terminals.  Of course, for some people, they mark the end of their trips.  But, for many others, it's just a station on the way to someplace else.

One of the office assistants at work--at the college in which I'd been moonlighting last semester--helped me to realize what I've just said.  The surgery and the events leading up to it were just preludes or prerequisites to what I would do next.  They were not goals unto themselves.  


In talking to that office assistant, I realized that if I'm not at a goal or destination, I'm at least on the road I hoped to take.  Or, at least, it bears a strong resemblance to what I hoped to have.  


I asked her whether the department chair would think I was doing something shady when I talked to a young woman who'd come for an interview.  She was in the office; I asked if I could help.  I forgot what she asked, but I sensed that she just wanted to talk to someone who's encouraging, or at least friendly.  The assistant and the department chair both saw me talking to this young woman.  "I hope she doesn't think I was coaching her or doing something I shouldn't be?"


The assistant's looked at me with a touch of pity.  "We're not like that around here," she assured me.  I wondered if she knows about some of the experiences I've had at my other school.


"I'm sorry."


"Don't worry.  You'll get used to this.  Besides, I think what you did was nice.  And she seemed happy about it," referring to the young woman.


But something in that assistant's tone told me so much more.  I hadn't heard anything like it at work in a long time.  I realized, then, the real reason why I like this new school:  I don't have to explain or defend myself.  To her, to the department chair, to my colleagues and students, I'm just a middle-aged woman who's teaching there.   There aren't any qualifiers, from me or them. And, best of all, I haven't encountered the sort of people who wants me to talk about my history and share it with my students precisely so they can use it against me.  


Just a woman going to work.  Maybe this isn't the goal or destination.  But I'd hoped to come this way.  Even so, every once in a while I need someone to remind me of where I've come.  

Eighteen Months

Today is exactly a year and a half since my surgery.  It's hard to believe that it went by so quickly.  


I haven't heard from my Trinidad "classmates" in a while.  Maybe I'll give them a call or e-mail them tomorrow.  Hmm....I wonder whether they'd prefer not to hear from me.  After all, our surgeries and our stays in Trinidad are receding further into the past.  I'm not thinking much about them now.  Then again, that may just because I've been busy.


There is certainly something to be said for the experience receding into the background, if you will.  After all, while the surgery was a goal, it wasn't and isn't  the point or purpose of my transition.  It was just another step along the way, albeit a major one.


Now I'm teaching a class in a place where that's all I have to do.  And the people have been friendly, but not intrusive.   I'm starting to feel I'd like a full-time job there, should one become available.  It's really nice simply to go to work as a woman named Justine, or Professor Valinotti.  (I must admit, though, I like "Professor Justine," which some of my students call me, even better.)


I feel that simply working and living as Justine, with no need to explain who or what I am, is reason enough for what I did eighteen months ago.

You Do It So It Won't Be A Big Deal

I'm still thinking about the experience I had the other day at my new part-time (one class, to be precise) gig.  There is an irony to it that I'm seeing just now:  In some way, my gender reassignment surgery didn't make that much difference--at least in that situation--and that is what I wanted.


And that is the very reason why I made the changes I've made.


In other words, I was able to have a teach, walk around, have a snack and sit in the summer afternoon sun among hundreds of young people--and I was nothing more than a middle-aged woman, if I was noticed at all.  If any of them noticed me, he or she might've thought I was a professor, simply because I am older than them and wasn't wearing a uniform of some kind.  Actually, that happens even when I'm not working:  People often take me for an educator of some sort, or a writer, and I don't try to project either.


But I realized that what I was experiencing was, in at least some way, the point of my surgery and all of the things that led up to it:  I wasn't seeking a different life so much as I wanted simply to experience life as the person I am, in a body that is a reflection of it.  And that is exactly what happened the other day.  I wasn't explaining, or apologizing for, myself--and nobody demanded those things of me.  


That's not to say that I want to leave everybody and everything I've ever known.  Some trans people do that after their surgeries, or even while they're preparing for it, and it doesn't always turn out well.  Plus, when you get to a certain age, it's not as feasible simply because it's more difficult to start over.  I want to be around people for whom my transition--if they know about it--will not be an issue. Such has been the case with my old friends who've remained with me as they were friends of Nick.  For them, there's not so much difference, except that I've been happier, so--as they say--they like my company more.  And, of course, my parents have been supportive even when they haven't been approving.  That in itself is a testament to what kind of people they are, and why I'm not going to leave them behind.  (Actually, I don't think I could, even if I wanted to.)


But then there are people--including some at my regular job--who see me only in terms of my transition, even if they never knew me as Nick.  And then there are the ones who really leave me confused and frustrated:  They were fine with me until either:  a. I got my current position there or b. I got my operation.  I've mentioned some of them, if not by name, on other posts.  As I've mentioned, they can be treacherous.   What I've learned is that they haven't changed:  I'm simply seeing a part of them I might not have seen otherwise.  


At least I know that it doesn't have to make a difference.  After all, I'm getting to live as the person I always knew myself to be.  I'll still have that when those people are no longer in my life.

Another Year Home

One year ago today, I came home from my surgery.  One of the first things I noticed upon getting off the plane was the humidity.  After spending a week and a half with very little of it when I was away, I was amazed at just how much of it I and most other New Yorkers consider to be normal. 


That flight home was the first--and, so far, only--time I've flown first class.  It will probably be the only time.


So what's the difference between now and then?  Well, it seems that ever since I've gotten back, Charlie and Max simply can't get enough of me.  They're still treating me as if I just got back.  Both of them have always been very affectionate; they seem to have become even more so.  I always had a feeling they liked women better than men.  Hmm...I wonder what they would have thought of me before my transition.


If I felt as if a layer of skin had been stripped away a couple of months after I started taking hormones, I felt I shed another layer after my surgery.  So much affects me,and sometimes I feel as if I can look directly into people.  The nice thing about that is that the people I love, I now love even more.  But the other side of this is that I am less tolerant of bullshit than I used to be.  That accounts for some of my ranting about my job and about a particular person who's not in my life anymore.  


And somehow my perceptions about time--at least as it relates to my own life--have also changed.  As I've said, much of my recent past seems so distant now:  Things that happened two years ago could just as well have happned two centuries ago.  And the future seems so much more immediate.


What would the past year--not to mention my life--have been had I not had the surgery?

Upcoming Anniversaries

One year ago today, I was making my final preparations to go to Trinidad.  I would leave the following day, which was Independence Day--and my birthday.


As I recall, I was making trips to the drugstore and supermarket so I would have at least some of what I needed when I got home.  I didn't expect to be in any physical condition to shop or do other errands; even if I were, I thought, I might not be in the mood.


It's funny how last-minute logistical preparations take on such importance when you're about to embark on a life-changing journey.  If I recall correctly, the narrator of Sophie's Choice--a movie I hated, by the way, in spite of Meryl Streep's presence and the fact that it was based on a very good book--was getting ready to go off and fight in World War II.  He enlisted in the Navy, but he was underweight.  So, he said, he spent the days before he had to return to the recruitment station engaged in eating bananas and masturbating.


Of course, there was a practical reason for eating the bananas.  So it would make sense to recall that.  But why did he recall masturbating?  In the face of a war one is going to fight, that would seem to be one of the most banal detail of all.


Now I remember that the surgery was four days away, and I was making my final preparations to go to it.  And now I am preparing for two birthdays, if you will:  my natal one, and the anniversary of my surgery.  I wonder if I will dread or look forward to subsequent anniversaries of my surgery as I and other people do to our birthdays.  

They Ask About "It"

My birthday's about three weeks away.  The anniversary of my surgery is three days after that, and the anniversary of my name change (and a couple of other things) is a week after that.


Maybe I'm turning into a proverbial (or not-so-proverbial) old fart, but none of those things seems so monumental right now.  When you get to my age, you've experienced a bunch of birthdays already, so it's no more of an event, really, than having your morning cup of coffee (or tea).  As you get older, time passes more quickly, so events come and go at a faster pace.  Paradoxically, learning that has been teaching me to ( in the words of someone who's much wiser than I am) live in the moment, not for it.  You do what you can in this moment precisely because it will be gone before you can even begin to think about it.  


What's got me onto another ramble into two-bit philosophy?  Well, today I bumped into someone I haven't seen in two years, or close to it.  Kyra was a tutor in biology and chemistry when I was in charge of the tutoring center at the college.  She was a good tutor for the main reason she's good at most of the things she's good at:   She has a warm, inviting personality and relates well to people.   


Today she was visiting a friend who just happens to live near me.  We got to talking about one thing in another; she's trying to decide whether to go to graduate school; of course I'd give her a recommendation--for that, or a job or whatever else she wants to do, I promised.  


Then, she asked me, "How did it go?"  I knew what she meant by "it."  She wasn't being coy; she just knew that I knew what she was talking about.  I told her that I experienced no pain and that my life got crazy for a while but it didn't have to do with "it;" now it seems almost inconceivable that I lived as long as I did before taking my trip to Trinidad.  


Everything I said was true.  But what I didn't tell her was that, in some way, the question seemed odd to me.  Or, more exactly, not quite relevant.  I felt the same way on Thursday when I bumped into Diane, who had been a student of mine at the same time I was running the tutoring center.  The last time either of us could recall having seen the other was at her graduation a year ago.  That was about five weeks before "it."  

And, yes, she asked me that same question about "it."  So did Sharon, who was a student in the last class I taught before "it."  I encountered her in the hallway during Finals Week; it was the first time I'd seen her since that class. After taking that class (Intro to Literature), she was inspired to change her major to English, she said.  She also asked how "it" went.


I was happy to see all of them.  And I appreciate their interest in my situation.  However, it seemed strange that they should ask about my surgery or its aftermath.  That it went well and I'm happy with it seems as normal and routine to me as brushing my teeth in the morning.  The surgery seems like just another event in my life now.  Yes, it changed, in some way, how I see and feel about myself.  And the years before my surgery, not to mention before my transition,  seem as far in the past as the Paleozoic Era.  


I'm not sure that it's because I have changed so much as a result of the transition or the surgery.  Perhaps it's simply a matter of moving on with my life--and, in my case, being fortunate enough to be moving on with a life that I had envisioned for myself.  Some people have told me they've seen a change in me;  I can see something different in the photos Bruce as well as a couple of complete strangers took of me.  The simplest explanation I have of it consists of a confidence and peace with myself that I never had before.  When you feel those things, it almost seems redundant to talk about them. People who know you see them; sometimes other people respond to them.   And, when such serenity and joy become normal--that is to say, when you carry them within you even when day-to-day situations are exasperating or annoying--they become the reason and means for what you do, and whatever event brought you to them starts to seem like just another moment, albeit a very good one.


So, while the surgery was a happy occasion for me, and seeing my newly-formed parts of my body (and spirit) developing has been wonderful, it seems strange that anyone else--even someone who hasn't seen me in a while--would express interest in them.  It's a bit like asking an experienced doctor how her licensing exam went.  We've made it through those events in our lives; there is only this moment.


Maybe that was the whole point of having the surgery.  It was an event I anticipated for a long time and dreamed (and despaired) of for much, much longer.  And why?  So that it wouldn't be an event to anticipate or enshrine---so that I could live as a woman.  


Still, I am glad that they asked, even if the answer doesn't seem so relevant now. And I'm glad they're progressing with their lives.

Waking Up Again

I'm amazed at something I experienced today, even though I've experienced it before:  One minute the anesthesiologist was doing his work; the next minute the doctor and nurse told me everything went just fine.


Today, I didn't spend as much time "under" as I did when I was having my sex reassignment surgery.  I expected that, as a colonoscopy isn't nearly  as complex procedure.  Still, I know that I was in an induced unconsciousness for about half an hour.   It still seemed as if I woke up only a moment after I was put to sleep.  


Maybe it's a good thing I had the colonoscopy today rather than last year:  After SRS, there aren't very many medical procedures I fear.  That may also have to do with Dr. Blechman, who did my preliminary examination three weeks ago as well as today's procedure.  I guess I'm still something of a teacher after all:  One of the first things I noticed about him is that he knows his stuff very well and does a great job of explaining it, without condescension.  He also seems to have had other transgender patients before:  He asked about my procedure, how long I lived as Justine before it and other pertinent questions.  Yet, even as he asked those questions, I never had the sense that he was looking at me as "the tranny patient"


The nurse with whom I spoke yesterday assisted him.  She did some of the pre-procedure screening over the phone: She asked about my allergies, previous illnesses and procedures and whether I was taking any medications.  I mentioned that I was taking Premarin; she asked whether it had to do with pregnancy.  I chuckled and politely explained that I cannot become pregnant.  I think she sensed what I told her next:  I'm transgendered and, in answer to her question about prior surgeries, I mentioned my GRS/SRS.  She asked me to explain it, which I did as best I could.  When I saw her today, she thanked me.  


Hmm...Maybe that's what I'll do in my next life or career:  Explain the surgery to doctors who have not performed it or worked with any patient who's had it.  Imagine that:  I could teach doctors.  Wouldn't that be something?


Anyaway;  I'm starting to get sleepy.  Maybe I still have some of that anaesthesia in me.  So:  Will I sleep for only a minute?  Or will it only feel that way?                                 

Our Mothers, Their Daughters

Today I talked with Marilynne. She may be the first friend I've made in my "new" life.

Her daughter underwent the surgery on the same day I had mine. But the daughter's was far more complicated than mine, as she was born with a condition that only a handful of people on the planet have. So, her recovery is also more complicated and lengthier than mine.

Of course I would love to see them again, and soon. However, they're going to Marilynne's parents' for Thanksgiving. It's probably just as well, for Mom and Dad have been talking about coming up this way from Florida. They'd hoped to move here--or, somewhere in this area--by the holidays, but it doesn't look like things are going to work that way. They've had no takers for their house, which isn't surprising. After all, Florida is one of the worst real estate markets in one of the worst economies this country has had in a long time.

Back to them. Sometimes I wonder what, if anything, they'd say to Marilynne and her husband, or vice versa, were they to meet. Mom always says I wasn't such a difficult kid to raise. I don't think she's merely being diplomatic, even though I don't think I could have been such an easy kid to care for.

I'm thinking now of a corollary to something Marilynne said: "As a mother, you always feel guilty." That was her response to my comment that she needed to be more generous with herself and to feel more confident that she's doing everything humanly possible to take care of her daughter and everyone else around her. At the end of the day, she simply has no time or energy to take care of herself. And if she had either, she'd find some other need someone else has and address that.

My mom is like that, too. It's not hard to imagine her saying what Marilynne said. And that's exactly the reason why it makes perfect sense, at least to me, that she would say I wasn't such a difficult kid to raise. Why would she, Marilynne or any other mother feel guilty? They would always know--or at least feel--that something else needed doing, but possibly couldn't be done. That means, of course, that no matter what they have to do, or are doing, they've done or are doing something else that's more difficult. And, chances are that something still more difficult will present itself. So, most things will only seem but so difficult in comparison.

Marilynne says that her daughter really isn't such a difficult kid. "She never wants anything," she says. But that's because "all she ever wanted was to be a girl." I always wanted the same thing, even more than anything else--even life itself. However, as I've mentioned before, I didn't express it because I'd never heard such a thing expressed when I was a kid. Plus, I don't think I was (or am) quite as intelligent as Marilynne's daughter.

But Mom would probably tell you I didn't want that much, either. That was true enough. And, she'll always point out that I never got into trouble (mainly because I never got caught! ;-) ) and that her friends always liked me. Yes, and I liked them, even more than my own peers.

And now I find myself making friends with women of, or over, a certain age--and I happen to be one of them myself!

One thing I know: Mom has been a saint and Dad has been much better than I ever anticipated. I'll bet that Marilynne's daughter will say, if she hasn't already said, the same thing about her mother and father. And her brother has been supportive. As far as I'm concerned, they're a family of heroes. At least, they're heroes of mine, anyway.

At least I expect to see Mom and Dad soon. Marilynne had talked about coming up this way with her daughter this fall, but I think that turned out to be a less realistic idea than any of us had anticipated. Her daughter, like me, is still healing and regaining her energy. Marilynne, I think, needs to do the same.

We're talking now about Spring Break, or possibly the days just after Christmas or New Year's.

Three Months: One Woman to Another

I can't believe it's been three months since my surgery. Soon, I'm supposed to be more or less normal. That is to say, if my doctor and gynecologist give me the OK, I'll be back on my bike and able to have sex. I have the equipment for either pastime; for the latter, all I need is a suitable partner!

Tomorrow I see the doctor, and I see the gynecologist next week. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. At least I'm not using that as a birth control method--not anymore, anyway! ;-)

Now I feel a little guilty for making that bad joke. Last night, I talked again with the young student of mine who told me, last week, she'd just gotten pregnant. When we talked last week, I tried to give her both the "pros" and the "cons" of giving birth or having an abortion. What surprised me is not only how confident she felt in speaking to me, but also how confident I felt in listening to her and offering her advice.

In some way, I could feel--not only vicariously, but even in some visceral way--her pain. "I don't want to give up my child," she insisted. Although having a child wouldn't have been the "best thing for her"--at least in the sense most of us think of that phrase--I felt a lot of respect for her when she articulated her wish not to have an abortion. No matter what science says, there will always be people who think that life begins at conception. And science has been wrong before.

She was convinced that she had a boy growing inside her.

Of course, as an educator, I thought of how that young woman's life as she knew it would, in effect, end before she turned twenty years old if she had the baby. School would be out of the question for many years; she would also have to find a way to make her relationship with her boyfriend work, or raise that baby alone or with the help of family members. The only problem with the latter option was that, well, it wasn't an option with her conservative, religious parents. As for her boyfriend: They'd broken up a few weeks before the pregnancy, gotten back together, had sex once (one time too many, in her parents' eyes) and gotten pregnant.

She still hasn't even told her parents that she'd gotten pregnant. And she doesn't plan to, she says.

Which means, of course, that they won't know about her abortion.

When she talked to me last week, she told me that her boyfriend wanted her to end her pregnancy. She also told me he accused her of "getting emotional about everything."

"Well, that's one thing he never could understand. He doesn't have that embryo inside him. So his body, not to mention his spirit, could never feel to him the way yours does to you right now."

Her eyes widened. "Yes! That's one thing guys never could understand about us."

The funny thing, in retrospect, is that I didn't pause mentally when she said that. I also didn't feel as if I were acting or "faking it" when I went along with her. Somehow I could just feel her emotions so strongly that I can honestly say I understood her about as well as someone in my situation could.

But last night, when she said, "I just knew I could talk to you," I felt that I had to "come clean," at least in one way.

"Well," I said, "I was feeling your pain. But I'll admit that I never have been pregnant, and never can become pregnant."

"Really?"

I explained why. To which she responded: "I never would have guessed. But you are so wise and so caring. I'm glad I talked to you."

"And I'm here for you, even when I'm not your professor anymore."

"You always will be."

Thank you for reminding me of that, young lady.

By the way: Class went very nicely. Maybe it's just because I enjoy teaching that class--a literature course--more than I enjoy the course on writing research papers, which is what I was teaching the other day. The students in that class are fine; it's just hard to make that course, which students are required to take, enticing. It's lots of detail work, which doesn't draw upon my strengths and passions as a creative person with a conceptual mind. I can teach that course reasonably well, but I'm sure others could do it better. But when I'm teaching lit or other kinds of writing courses, the students are looking at my soul.

And that young woman spoke to it. I was describing my encounter with her to Jason, a trans man I know and whom I bumped into on my way home. "She would've come to you, no matter what," he insisted.

Three months since surgery...It's going to be interesting to see what happens after six months. Or a year. Or whatever comes after that.

New Words In An Old Friendship

"You sound really good!"

Bruce, who is not given to speaking in superlatives, said that. Today we talked for the first time since my surgery. He'd been away and, given my nonexistent-at-this-moment sense of time, I wasn't sure of whether or not he'd returned yet.

He was on a holiday that's typical for him: a Zen retreat and some hiking. And, he capped it this weekend when he and other family members took his mother on a hot-air baloon ride for her 85th birthday.

I don't think I've ever before been so happy to talk to him in the nearly three decades I've known him. "From the moment I woke up from the surgery, I felt as if a weight had come off my shoulders."

"Really?! I can see why."

"Yes. I could actually feel it. And it's a good thing..."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"You bet it is. From all this inactivity, I have no upper body strength."

And then the patented Bruce Groan. Every time one or the other of us--or anyone else--has made a really silly joke or bad pun, I've heard it. Today it's another sign that I'm home. But now it's even better: I am the person I was always meant to be, and he welcomes her.

Now, of course, I had been living as a woman for almost six years before I had my surgery. But I think Bruce sensed, even before I voiced it, the sense of completeness, of wholeness I now feel. My journey is not complete--at least I hope not!--but at least I can move forward with more emotional and spiritual integrity.

We've made plans to have lunch on Friday. I was hoping to see him on Thursday, after my appointment with Dr. Jennifer. But, he has one of those meetings that no amount of cunning, charm or chicanery I may or may not have ever been capable of can get him out of.

Omigoddess...that last sentence. And I teach English! I hope my department chair doesn't see that one.

So why am I letting it stand? Well, I guess you can say that I care a bit more about sincerity, "heart" and trueness to myself and to the truth than I do about propriety. Deep down, I've always been that way, although I put on my stuffy grammarian's mask when it got me influence (or the illusion of it, anyway) or it simply made me feel superior to somebody else. But now....Speaking in a language that's accurate and truthful will do all sorts of things for me that perfect grammar won't. Or so I believe.

Now I wonder what it will be like to go back to the college, and to teach, this fall. It's not that I don't want to do either. I just wonder what, if anything, I will see or do differently. What will matter more to me; what will concern me less? Or will I still care about the same things in more or less the same ways?

I guess those are the essential questions when it comes to any kind of change a person undergoes. Will I come to realize that the things I've been teaching my students are even more important than I thought they were? Or will I see them as roadblocks against arriving at the truth about ourselves? Could it be the language I've tried to teach them simply cannot express the things they--or I--need to say?

I keep thinking about Michelangelo's David. Michelangelo kept on chipping away until he found David; all of the work and the surgery were about getting to the woman within me. Could it be that--as I've suspected--it's necessary to chip away all the dead language, all of the words, phrases and other structures of language that have grown obsolete, or simply tired, in order to get at the truth? Sometimes I feel that my education--and whatever education I've imparted to my students--is based on the premise that our truths can be fashioned from the words we learn. Or, worse, we receive the message that more words, more phrases, more pages are better.

Enough theorizing for now. I'm thinking about Bruce again. He may well be the only real male friend I've ever had. Take that back: I consider Millie's husband Johnny a friend, too, though I probably wouldn't have met him if I hadn't met Millie. Anyway...I expect my friendship with Bruce to continue. But I can't help but to wonder whether anything about it will change. Maybe it won't be dramatic: It seems that he and I stopped relating to each other as one male to another a long time ago, if indeed we ever had such a relationship. And I don't think the changes will be negative, either: After all, he's seen me become happier and more integrated over the past few years, and I feel that it's deepened our friendship.

And now he says that I sound better than I ever did before. I can't wait to see him on Friday: We've planned a lunch date for then.

Six Months: Deja Vu, A Venir

Today's the day. Well, the halfway day, anyway.

Six months...since I started counting down this year. Six months--181 days--until the date of my surgery.

Yes, only six months to go. When's the day gonna come?

For the last few weeks, I've had the sense that this would be a major milestone. I wasn't sure of whether I'd plow full-speed-ahead, or whether I'd start to panic. You might say I'm doing a bit of both.

Actually, this day has been neither as exhiliarating nor as foreboding as I might've expected it to be. About the biggest event of this day was resuming my electrolysis after a layoff of three weeks. Tonight, I had another class session with the students I'll be teaching for the next two weeks. They're very nice, and I haven't told them anything about my impending surgery, this blog or my life as the "before" picture. However, I'm sure they've heard something about them, for most of my students these days are friends of students who've taken my classes before.

Tonight they were very energetic, asking lots of questions and adding a lot to the discussion and doing really good work. And I felt hyper and giddy. Were they feeding off my energy, or was I running on theirs? Or was it some sort of spontaneous synchronicity? What in the world did I just ask?

Anyway, I enjoyed it and will continue to do so, or so I hope. Maybe if the next six months could be like this, I would be in really good condition, both physically and emotionally, when I go into the surgery. Or I may just be so exhausted that I'll collapse onto the operating table and Dr. Bowers can give her anaesthesiologist the day off. Does that mean I would get a discount on the cost of the surgery? Anaesthesiologist sent home, not paid...Hmm, How would the anaesthesiologists' union feel about that? Or do they have one?

But back to this day, and the six months gone and six months to come. At the beginning, I wanted this to be an uneventful and uncomplicated year. Somehow I had the idea that I needed to save my energy, to save myself, for the surgery. That was one of the reasons why, just after I started this full-time faculty position, I was upset: I started to feel as if whatever right to privacy I had was taken away from me. But then again, practically everyone on campus knew about me, or had at least heard about me and thought "that's the one" when they saw me walking down the halls.

Or maybe they said, "She's that prof," or "He's that prof." If they said either of those things, I shouldn't be happy. After all, I am an English teacher and I'd hope they'd know that any living thing, whatever his or her gender, should never be referred to as "that." Not even if he or she is an ex or an in-law!

I must say, though, that the more imminent the surgery becomes, the more I sense my in-between-ness. (I'm sorry for the inelegance of that locution.) Previously, I was seeing myself if, not as a corporeal woman, then at least as someone who was living more or less as one. In public, strangers who've heard nothing about me call me "ma'am" or, if I'm being a really good girl, "miss." There was the other side, too: People who assumed I was less knowledgable or competent than I actually am. I've found them in the halls of academia as well as in hardware stores. And then, of course, there have been the dangers: I don't venture as freely, solitarily or as late as night as I once did. I'd been warned not to do those things, and I think now of the guy who tried to pull of my skirt, whom I tried to lose in a maze of ancient streets just behind the Hotel de Ville in Paris. I know those streets better than most non-Parisians, but he knew them at least as well. Finally, I leapt into a taxi and blurted "Republique" to the driver. I know the arrondisements around la Place de la Republique pretty well, he wouldn't be there, and from there I knew I could get on the Metro to Janine's apartment.

That was near the end of my first year of living full-time as Justine. A couple of more incidents with randy, raunchy guys followed during the ensuing years.

Most women in similar situations would be thinking about a sexual assault. I thought of that, too, and of other kinds of assault (which usually accompany the sexual kind). But biological women in those situations are in danger, or are at least concerned because of their woman-ness. On the other hand, I was in danger because I was, in some senses, not yet completely a woman.

Of course the operation won't take that danger away. But I'm doing it so that at least I will come closer to being the person, the woman, I am and want to be.

So, if I've been living between genders, or as one who entered her ancestral home-gender (Sorry for another clumsy phrasing!) but who wasn't yet fluent in the language or entangled with the culture, there are still aspects of living fully (or as fully as I can) as a woman that I can only imagine. And aspects I can't imagine.

And there are the things I've always imagined. Will they be as I envisioned them? Among other things, I'm thinking, of course, about my body without a penis, and with a vagina and clitoris. Will I see it the same way as I see other things I've always imagined, like my breasts (such as they are)? I'd always wanted them, although I'm now glad they're not as big as I would've wanted them when I was younger. The truth is, I see them when I dress and undress, but I don't think about them. They're just kinda there: I like them, but they're nothing to make a fuss over. Then again, they don't have as great an effect on how I function as a woman as I expect my vagina and clitoris will.

Now I'm thinking again of that first year of living full-time. I was teaching at LaGuardia Community College. The school's drama society and women's center were staging Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues. (See what happens when one of your school's faculty members "changes" genders!) A few of the actresses, women from the center and I were talking about it. Then they began to talk about their vaginas and what they meant to them. Finally, they all looked to me. "Mine's within me," I said. "Hopefully, one day it will be on the outside, too."

"It will," said the Center's director.

Yes...As long as all goes according to plan and design, it will. In another six months.

Deja vu; a venir. Another 181 days to go.

Time flies. Are we there yet?

The Second Puberty

On days like this, I'm not sure of whether I've underachieved or simply gotten the restoration my mind--and body--needed.

I slept until almost 8 this morning. I don't get to do that during the workweek, and it seems like a luxury even though I'd gone to bed some time after midnight. So, according to doctors and sleep experts, I still didn't get as much sleep as I'm supposed to.

Then again, I don't know anyone who sleeps that much, except on a holiday or sick day. Even then, people don't get that much more sleep than they normally get.

One thing I've noticed since I've started taking the hormones: I get to bed later and sleep later than I used to. These days it's harder for me to get up very early. And I find that I'm not as consistent as I used to be in the amount of sleep I get every night.

Other trans people have described similar experiences to me. I don't know why the transition affects our sleep. But I can, if nothing else, venture a guess based on my own experience.

When I was about to start my tranisiton, my doctor told me that I would go through a "second puberty." In other words, my body would go through changes very similar to those experienced by 12- to 14-year olds. What that meant was that, among other things, I would grow breasts, some of my facial features and other areas of my body would become more feminine, and I would become more intensely emotional. And I could gain weight, as kids often do in their puberty. All of those things have come true: I'm somewhere between an A and a B cup (Conventional wisdom says that a trans woman's will be one size smaller than her mother's: That's about right, in my case.), I am always addressed as "ma'am" or "miss" by strangers--even today, when I was riding my bike in shorts and a baggy T-shirt and without makeup--and, as for my emotions, well, if you've been following Tranny Times, you don't need any explanation of that. And, as for my weight gain, I hope I follow another pattern of puberty in losing it as my new bodily characteristics mature.

The point is, in puberty and in the adolescence that follows, one is living on a child's external clock while the rest of the world is running on Grown-Ups' Standard Time (GUST). Or vice versa: You have a GUST bodily clock while the world is running on children's time. And, most of us yo-yo between both states. That is why it seems that we're sprinting ahead of or falling behind everyone else when we walk. We, like kids in their early teens, never seem to keep abreast with the rest of the world. You might say--sorry, Thoreau--that we're hearing different drummers from the rest of the world.

That, I believe, is also the reason why kids of that age will often write poetry--sometimes very intense--or engage in other creative pursuits that fall by the wayside somewhere in their late teens or early adulthood. I think now of the poetry workshops I used to do as a visiting artist in the schools: The most incredible stuff was written by sixth, seventh and eighth-graders. And most of them would never write poetry or short stories again after they left adolescence.

That is one way I'm different from pubescent boys and girls. I've been writing in one fashion or another for as long as I can remember; if I haven't abandoned it by now, I don't think I ever will.

Back to sleep: Ever notice that that kids in puberty can stay up all of one night and the next but sleep all through the next day? Or so it seems. And--I think back to being a camp counselor--you practically have to lift them by their feet with a crane and drop them if you want them to wake up early enough to be on time for anything? Or so it seems. I couldn't count how many kids showed up at the mess hall just as it stopped serving breakfast!

(All right. If there's a pubescent kids' defamation league, I'm probably on their "hit list" now. Some days I'd be more worried about them than the Mafia, FBI, Mossad or any so-called terrorist organization. Other days, I'd be about as worried over them as I am over the prospect of a blizzard on this hot midsummer night.)

Now I'm ready to sleep again. Tomorrow: Same time (well, more or less), same pages.