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.

A Meeting Yesterday, A Committee From Long Ago

By the end of the day yesterday, I could just barely keep my eyes open, even when I was standing up. After my classes, I had a meeting with my department's curriculum committee. It's the first committee meeting I've attended since June: Last semester, I had a class during the same hours that the committee met.

However, I didn't feel as if I were "catching up." I'd been following the proceedings and staying in touch with the other committee members. But that wasn't the only reason why I had a sense of deja vu at the meeting.

During the past few months, I'd all but forgotten what deja vu is. I was experiencing a lot new things, some of which had to do with my surgery and transition. What seems ironic now is that even after a few weeks, having to dilate three times and take hot baths twice a day didn't seem repetitive or routine. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that I had to take care of my body in a way I never did before; in fact, consciously taking care of my body, period, was a new experience for me.

Even talking to my mother and having Millie stop by at my place every day remained fresh experiences for me. I had begun talking daily to my mother around Memorial Day. I continued through my stay in Trinidad and my first three months home. And, once I got home, Millie started coming by every day.

I hadn't had daily conversations with my mother, or any member of my family, at least since I was in high school. And I can't remember the last time (before last summer) that I saw a friend every day.

But going to the meeting yesterday was simply repetitive. It seemed that the same things were being argued about, in the same way, by the same people that argued them all those months ago. Actually, I realize today that it didn't just seem that way; it actually was that way: not much has changed since the last meeting I attended. Yet that meeting, like so much else, seems like it happened a lifetime ago.

And they're still arguing. Even though I participated in those arguments, and wrote two course descriptions, I felt as if I had never been part of that committee, that it did what it was going to do anyway, with or without me.

What's even odder was that I felt neither sad nor joyous over what I had done, or that I was meeting with that committee again. The work I did simply felt like some part of my distant past, and the meeting felt like just another repetition of another point in time, and that time was yet another repetition of yet another point in time. That is what people commonly call "the present," which often has nothing at all to do with the moment. The past few years have been, for me, as much about learning--if not alway successfully-- to live in, but not for, the moment.

I will be at the next meeting; I don't think I'm being cynical when I say I don't expect much, if anything, to change. It's all for the same moment, one that seems like a very, very long time ago.