It's Not About Privilege. It's About How She Uses It.

OK, I'll admit it: I haven't watched "I Am Cait."  Then again, I haven't watched anything on television in a while because I almost never watch TV.

That said, I want to address remarks I've heard about it, and about Caitlyn Jenner's very public journey.  Those remarks have a common denominator:  privilege, or at least the word "privilege."  As in, "She's exploiting her upper-class privilege."  A few others have said she is using her "male privilege":  in essence, denying her transition and current life.  

The "male privilege" accusation comes mainly from TERFs and their allies:  After all, any man or any conservative who refused to see Caitlyn as female wouldn't see males as having privilege.  And, perhaps not surprisingly, the "white privilege" or "class privilege" whine doesn't emenate from the lips those who are darker or poorer than Caitlyn:  Those echoes of resentment come mainly from rich white cisgender heterosexuals who took a gender studies course or two.  Ironically, they are no different from white male conservatives in that they cannot see themselves as having privilege, but they can find it in a millisecond in someone else, whether or not that person actually has it.

There is no question that Caitlyn Jenner's celebrity--garnered mainly during her life as a man named Bruce--gives her more privilege than most people will ever enjoy.  And, if she's not part of the "one percent", she's close to it--which, of course, is another source of privilege.  Of course, being white doesn't hurt her standing, either.

Every male-to-female transgender I have ever known--I include myself--has lost some sort of privilege she didn't know she had when she was living as male.  This is especially true if said trans person is white:  As one black trans woman told me, "I don't feel I lost privilege because I had so little to begin with."  Whether the same thing will happen to Caitlyn remains to be seen.  Many of us are rightly celebrating her courage and integrity and, not surprisingly, some are mocking and hating on her.  Some of the haters probably own, or run, the companies that sponsor the programs on which Caitlyn has appeared, so it's hard not to wonder whether, after the attention she's now receiving has shifted elsewhere, she will lose some of her television work or be asked to make fewer public appearances in other venues.

I hope that nothing like that happens to Caitlyn.  As much as I'd like to have some of her privilege, I don't begrudge her for it.  If anything, I think she is using it well to call attention to such things as the suicide of a transgender teenager no one would have heard about if Caitlyn hadn't mentioned him.  Perhaps someone could knock her for taking a cross-country trip with her own entourage but, hey, if it helps to make us and our stories and struggles more real to the public, I have no problem with it.  If nothing else, such actions--and almost everything else she's done from the time Diane Sawyer interviewed her--has helped to break some of the old stereotypes about trans people.

If you're going to denigrate someone for having privilege, go after someone who's using it to bully or exploit people--especially if he's running for the Presidential nomination of his party.  But don't knock someone like Caitlyn, who's been using it for our betterment. 

Hetero Pride: A Parade Of One

It's been a long time since I've taken a course in mathematics or economics.  But I think I still remember the basic concept of a zero-sum game accurately: When one person gains, another person loses.  So, if you order a pizza pie to share, each slice one person takes is one less slice for everyone else.

Some people seem to think that human rights are like that pizza pie.  The people who seem to think that are those who don't realize how much they take those rights for granted.  Whenever laws are passed to prevent people from being fired from, or denied jobs because of their race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or gender identity or expression, they think something has been taken from them.

Even an expression of self-esteem from a black or transgender person raises their hackles.  They see the main streets of their cities being closed to allow  a parade or march for "pride" (unless it's for their group of people, e.g., the St. Patrick's or Columbus Day parades) as "special treatment".   They're the ones who whine "White lives matter, too!"

So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that someone organized a Heterosexual Pride parade. I'm a little surprised that it was held in Seattle.  Then again, I guess nothing will raise some people's hackles more than living in proximity to the ones they believe are receiving "preferential treatment".   

Then again, Seattle is full of enlightened people.  How do I know that?  Well, for one thing, Marci Bowers has lived and practiced obstetrics and gynecology there for decades.  For another, they stayed away from the "parade".

Yes, parade organizer Anthony Rebello was all by himself.  Not even his girlfriend showed up.

Well, whatever else you want to say about him, he knows a thing or two about damage control.  Knowing he had egg on his face, he declared that his Parade of One was just a "warm up" for next year's event.

Mr. Rebello:  There are all sorts of other things you can do by yourself!  And you don't have to do them in public!

Great Advice

A letter to "Dear Abby" reminded me of how much work still needs to be done:

Dear Abby: My husband and I relocated to Florida a little over a year ago and were quickly welcomed into our new neighbors’ social whirl. Two couples in the neighborhood are gay. While they are nice enough, my husband and I did not include them when it was our turn to host because we do not approve of their lifestyle choices. Since then, we have been excluded from neighborhood gatherings, and someone even suggested that we are bigots!

Abby, we moved here from a conservative community where people were pretty much the same. If people were “different,” they apparently kept it to themselves. While I understand the phrase “when in Rome,” I don’t feel we should have to compromise our values just to win the approval of our neighbors. But really, who is the true bigot here? Would you like to weigh in? — Unhappy In Tampa

At least "Abby"'s response shows that she gets it:  

Dear Unhappy: I sure would. The first thing I’d like to say is that regardless of what you were told in your previous community, a person’s sexual orientation isn’t a “lifestyle choice.” Gay people don’t choose to be gay; they are born that way. They can’t change being gay any more than you can change being heterosexual.

I find it interesting that you are unwilling to reciprocate the hospitality of people who welcomed you and opened their homes to you, and yet complain because you are receiving similar treatment.

From where I sit, you may have chosen the wrong place to live because it appears you would be happier in a less integrated neighborhood surrounded by people who think the way you do. But if you interact only with people like yourselves, you will have missed a chance for growth, which is what you have been offered here. Please don’t blow it.

Perhaps the most important part of her response is in the second paragraph.  She seems to understand that "what goes around comes around" and, more important, that people like the letter-writer don't realize just how much they are living by their sense of entitlement.  They want to be accepted and included but want the right not to accept or include people whose "lifestyle choices" they don't approve. 

If someone refused that letter-writer employment for which she is qualified or housing she can afford because she is female or because of her race, religion or cultural background, I imagine she'd be furious.  I also suspect she wouldn't have stood for not being allowed to marry the man who became her husband.  she'd be furious.  Yet she probably believes that  in fighting for the same rights straight people take for granted, in marriage as well as other areas, LGBT people are looking for "special treatment."

"Abby" is right:  If people don't like people who are different from themselves, they should find ways to live and work only among those who look, think and act like them.  But they would miss out on so much.

I feel sorry for people like that.  After all, I feel sorry for anyone who would want to deprive him- or her-self of my company! ;-) 

 

Victor Imperatus, Lost Classics And Transgenders' Lost Generation

One of my students, who is very articulate and rather feisty, brought up the subject of bias in history.  "No matter where you go to school, the history they teach you is completely slanted", he averred.

He cited some examples from wars.  "What German kids learn about World War II is completely different from what we learn", he explained.  "And what French kids, Japanese kids and British kids learn is all different, too."

I told him that, while I haven't read enough history books from other countries to know, I suspected that what he said is true.  That, I suppose, was the Properly Professorial Thing To Say.  However, I know--intuitively as well as experientially--that the principle behind what he said is one of the truest things ever expressed.

He's the sort of bright student we sometimes see in City University schools:  very smart, literate and verbal, and from a home where there are probably few, if any, books and a family of few, if any, educated people.  He's the sort of student who mispronounces words he reads in books because those books are the only places in which he sees those words:  He has never used them in a conversation.

I was something like him.  Sometimes I feel I'm still like him:  I mispronounce words or use ideas out of context (or, at least, in ways they aren't normally used) because I've encountered them on my own, in isolation, rather than in bull sessions with people who seem to have spent their entire lives around holders of advanced degrees.

Anyway, I mentioned the phrase Victor Imperatus and explained that it's not the name of one of my neighbors in Astoria, but rather the notion that history is written by the winners--or, at least, those who have power and privilege.  To illustrate what I meant, I described my own experience as an undergraduate just over three decades ago:  None of the histories I read were written by women or African-Americans.

Or transgenders.

I didn't mention the lack of trans history simply because I didn't mention my gender identity at all, and don't know whether I will.  (It's still early in the semester.)  But I know that there's very little, if any, history--or, for that matter, much of anything else--written by trans people that's in print.  I don't think it's because we don't write (Just look at this blog); if anything, we might write more, per person, than other people.  However, much of what we've written was published before we transitioned or was written by people who were trans but, for whatever reasons, lived in the gender to which they were assigned at birth.  I'd bet that some writers were never published or read again after they started to live in their true genders, and that some continued to publish under the names they received at birth, or under pseudonyms.

One result of what I've just described is that, save for a few books and other works we've written about our experiences, there is very little--in literature, history, science or any other area--written with a transgender perspective.

When you're part of a privileged group, you don't have to think about a perspective or point of view.  "History" is about you and your people; "African-American", "Women's", "Hispanic" or "LGBT" History are about other people, who are not considered "mainstream".  When I was in school, we did not read books (whether histories or works of fiction or poetry) by any of the people I've just mentioned; I would later learn that some works, like Charlotte Perkins Gilman's story "The Yellow Wallpaper" were out of print and forgotten for decades.  After such works were rediscovered, they were ghettoized into "Women's Studies" (or, later, "Gender Studies), "African American Studies" or whatever.   

I don't know whether there are transgender "lost classics" waiting to be rediscovered.  I somehow believe that they are.  Until we find them and start writing more stories of our own, the "lost generation" I've described in previous posts won't be our only one.

My First New Year's Eve

So...This will probably be my last post of the year. It's a little sad to write this: This, the most momentous of my life so far, is ending. Then again, I'm about to start my first full year in my new life.

Tomorrow I am going to Millie's house, again. She seems to think the first day rather than the first second of the new year is more important--to the extent that she thinks of such things. In that sense, she's rather like me.

It seems that almost everyone is happy to see this year end. At least, the people I've heard talking about the topic have expressed such a feeling. At the same time, they seem more hopeful than optimistic about the coming year. In other words, they're hopeful in the same way as someone who comes to New York after his life has fallen apart in Nebraska. That, by the way, is the story of someone I talked with a few nights ago. Maybe I'll tell more about him later.

Anyway...They say that hope springs eternal. Maybe that's why people ring out the old and ring in the new year. Some--not all of them young--have visions of the wonders that the new year can bring. I'm thinking now of what Eva-Genevieve said in the wake of Mike Penner/Christine Daniels' suicide: Many people enter gender transitions with the idea that living full time in their "new" gender will be like a permanent drag ball. They think of the sense of release they feel when dressing up and going out, or the sexual thrill they get out of "kicking up their heels" and expect that the adrenaline rush they get from playing their roles will continue 24/7/365.

In a similar vein, on this night, many people are thinking only of the things they expect or hope to be better in the coming year. The mass media are full of that sort of thing: The economy is going to turn a corner, etc, etc. Of course, one should have hope. But if you've had some difficulty or another for years or even decades, is it rational to expect that problem to change, much less disappear, by turning a page in a calendar?

Back to transitioning: There are probably more things that don't change, at least in the circumstances of one's life, than there are things that change as a result of starting the process of becoming true to one's self. You still have to pay whatever bills you were paying before. In fact, they will probably be bigger and there will be more of them. You still have the same tensions over work, workplaces and living situations, which may be exacerbated by undertaking a transition. And, I've discovered, though the form of some of your relationships may change, the real attitudes of the people with whom you're in those relationships don't shift--at least, most of them don't. The ones who decide they want nothing more to do with you are really acting on attitudes and prejudices they had before you "came out" to them. The ones who change their attitudes either loved you or simply had open minds before you shared your "secret" with them.

The difference is that you may not have known these things about the people in question before you decided you could no longer live in as the person they believed you to be. The truth is, you didn't have to know them. That is part of what having privilege means: You don't have to know at least some of the truth about others. That also defines what privilege I still have. As an example, I know people who lived on the streets at one time or another in their lives. I admire them for having survived and becoming advocates, going to school or doing other positive things with their lives. But, at the same time, I can't even begin to imagine the realities of the lives they lived when their only shelter was whatever place they hadn't been chased away from and the only way they could make a home for themselves was to curl up in a fetal position, as if they were recreating their mother's wombs.

All right...I'll get off the soapbox. I'll tell you another way in which I have privilege. Happily, I acquired it during the course of my transition and surgery. You see, I didn't get a sexual thrill out of putting on female clothes or an adrenaline rush out of going public in a dress. To tell you the truth, I was scared to death when I first did those things. And I was for a long time afterward. Furthermore, I felt completely out of place the one time I went to a "drag" bar: I am a woman, not a cross dresser. The other patrons--most of them, anyway--went back to their lives as boyfriends and husbands and fathers, as horse trainers and construction supervisors and mechanical engineers. I had no such option of "going back."

That was eight New Year's Eves ago.

Today I made it to the appointment with Anna I rescheduled from last week. I had my hair cut a bit and had it treated to so that it's softer than it was. Other women were getting their hair done; two were also being made up by one of the stylists at Zoe's Beauty. I was there for the same reasons as other women; I simply felt normal there. And that is how I felt when I walked the strip of Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint and tried on shoes and clothes I didn't buy: It wasn't a thrill or a rush; it was simply life as I was meant to live it.

And, yes, I had a late lunch/early dinner at The Happy End. I began today's repast the way I've begun every meal I've had there: with their white borscht. This time, I had the grilled kielbasa with onions. The menu said that the kielbasa was "locally made;" it certainly tasted better than any other I've had. And today's meal is probably the only one I've ever had that included two servings of mashed potatoes. Plus, the sides were interesting and tasty: red cabbage, sauerkraut and a salad made of sliced carrots. I noticed once again that the proprietress, who's about my age, was friendlier toward me than to her fellow Poles. She's seen me before, and remembered me, but I'm sure most of those Polish patrons were repeat customers as well.

She was also friendly to two male hipsters who were eating at the counter. Oh my goddess--I hope that's not the end of the restaurant, or the neighborhood!

Then again, should I begrudge a couple of hipsters their privilege? I wished them a Happy New Year on the way out; they wished me the same.

And I hope you have a great New Year, too!

Christmas And A Hanai Family

It's hard to believe that Christmas Day is almost over. I slept late: As rewarding and enlightening as working in the soup kitchen was, it left me tired. I didn't do any heavy lifting, but I did have to bend and otherwise move around a bit. I guess it's going to be a while before I have all, or anywhere near, my former strength.

Plus, I could feel the tiredness and downtrodden-ness of the people there. I was describing it to my mother, when I remarked, "I can only imagine how they deal with it every day. I'd probably be crying all the time."

"That's what they probably do," my mother said. "Or they just get used to it."

I'm not so sure I'd want to simply "get used to it." Yes, there is suffering in this world: In fact, Buddhists and others say that life is suffering. I guess getting used to the fact that there is suffering, and that you and other people will suffer, is one thing. But to "get used to" suffering, or witnessing the suffering of others is something else. And I certainly want to get used to despair. Nor would I want anyone else to do that.

Still, I plan to volunteer again at that soup kitchen. It's not that I feel any duty or obligation to do so. And I know better than to use charitable acts as atonement for past misdeeds. Something like that works only when there is perfect reciporicity: in other words, when one good balances out one evil. Life is much more complicated than that.

To revert to a cliche, I simply feel good about the work I did yesterday. I don't mean that in a self-congratulatory way. Rather, I feel good in the way one feels after doing something very basic and necessary for someone else and knowing that the person valued it. Plus, it is emotionally satisfying for me to feed someone, and to share a meal with that person. (And I did those things for more than one person!) Maybe it has something to do with my Italian heritage: In that culture, you simply can't separate eating and relationships. My mother and grandmother always offered something to eat for anyone who came to their homes. And, after I moved out, it seemed that the first thing my mother wanted to do when I came to her house was to feed me.

Millie's like that, too. That's why it has always felt so natural for me to spend holidays with her and her family, or simply to go to her house. Now I am in tears: I have experienced their generosity and love, again. I hope that that woman I talked with yesterday, and all the other people I saw at the soup kitchen, will have something like that. What's sad is that some of them have never had it, while others lost it, by whatever means.

If there's something in this world to which everyone has a right, that just may be it. Privilege is getting it both from your biological family (or, at least, one or some members of it) and from your hanai family. (Thanks to Keori of Pam's House Blend for allowing me to learn of that Hawaiian tradition.)

Privilege In A Soup Kitchen

Most of the day was briskly cold, as the past couple of days have been. However, toward sunset, the air started to feel damp in spite of the clear sky. It probably had to do with the melting snow. Interestingly, the snow seems to be melting even more quickly now: I think it's warmer at I write this, late at night, than it was earlier in the evening.

Now, if I believed more in things like synchronicity and that everything that happens in our daily lives is somehow symbolic, I would say that today was a counterpoint to last Christmas Eve. I spent the main part of that day in Newark Airport, waiting to get on the flight I'd booked to Florida. That meant that my parents spent a large part of their day waiting for me at Jacksonville Airport. We all thought it was such a good idea for me to take a direct flight to Jacksonville, which is about an hour and a half drive from my parents' house, rather than taking a flight to Atlanta and another to Daytona Beach, which is less than half an hour from their place.

Anyway...last Christmas Eve seems further in the past, somehow, than even some of the Christmas Eves of my childhood.

One thing that made today different from Christmas Eves past--apart from having experienced the changes I've undergone in the past few months and few years--is how I spent part of this day. This afternoon, Jade, a friend I met at the LGBT Community Center, and I volunteered at a soup kitchen/food pantry on the Lower East Side.

Normally, lunch is served every weekday from 11 to 1 pm, and the pantry distributes bags of food twice a week. People are allowed one bag of food (which contains enough to stock a small pantry) a month; they simply have to present some form of ID. No such requirement exists for having lunch.

Today, however, the mealtime was extended, as were the hours for distributing bags of groceries. As you might imagine, there were a lot of people there.

After most of the patrons/clients/recipients (I heard all three terms used) were served, Jade and I were offered the same late lunch/early dinner, which was like a Thanksgiving dinner: turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and the other foods that go along with it. At first I was going to decline: Somehow I didn't feel right about eating something that could've gone to someone who needed it more than I did. I voiced that concern to Jade and to the woman in charge of the kitchen. Both insisted that would not be the case; besides, some of the people would like to see us eating with them.

It made perfect sense, yet hearing it still surprised me somehow.

Anyway...The food was very good. And a black woman who was probably about ten years older than I am was good company. She told me a bit about how her life spiralled downward through an abusive marrage and drug addictions--hers and his. One might argue that she made bad choices; I would argue that her choices were more limited than mine have been and that she, for a variety of reasons, didn't know about other choices she could have made--such as getting help.

One thing I've learned is that people don't do things we would never do (or that we believe we would never do) because they're stupid or incompetent. More often, their circumstances present them a different (and, most likely, more limited) set of options than what we've had.

I say that as someone who, if I do say so myself, has grown keenly aware of privilege. I've told people that one thing I've learned in this transition (and, in fact, one of the few things I've learned that has any real value at all) is that privilege is something you don't know you have until you lose it. I was able to get some of the education and other experiences I have in part because I lived more or less within what was expected of a white male--and one who seemed straight to most people most of the time. What if I had "come out" when I was a teenager? Would I have stopped attending high school after getting beat up for the umpteenth time? (That is the story of a number of LGBT people I've met.) Or, what if my family had kicked me out. (That's another story I've heard too many times.) What would have I become, or what would have become of me?

The sober fact is that much of what I've been able to do--including, to some degree, my transition itself--is a residue of the privilege I once had. And even the residue of it is still more than many other people--including most of the people I saw today--have ever had. The fact that I was volunteering-- that I was, by choice, sharing my meal with someone who had noplace else to go--was itself a reflection of privilege that I still have, to some degree.

As near as I can tell, it doesn't help to feel guilty about it, or even angry over the injustice one finds in the world. I'm just trying to use what I've been given in ways that are meaningful and helpful to others as well as emotionally satisfying to me. And let me tell you, being able to live as you've always wanted to live is a pretty damned good resource to have!

When You Don't Have To Apologize For Yourself

So today I turned in my grades and went to the holiday reception for faculty and staff members. That I actually wanted to go to such a thing is, for me, a change. And once I got there I realized why I was looking forward to it.

I did indeed spend some time with colleagues and other staff members I hadn't seen in a while. It still amazes me, even at this late date, that someone can work a hundred feet away from you and you and that person can go for months without seeing each other. Some of that has to do with the nature of our work and the variations in our schedules. But, for some faculty and staff members, I think it also has to do with working for so long in a culture in which people remain in their offices or cubicles. I think some of the newer faculty and staff--I include myself--and some of the administration are trying to change that. However, it took a long time for that culture, which I noticed almost from my first day at the college, to develop. So it will change slowly.

Then again, in the words of one prof who started at the college last year: "We all seem to be doing more this year!" She's right on many levels. I know that all of my class sizes increased by 25 percent this year. So did most other classes. So someone who teaches four sections has, in essence, five. That's no small consideration when you're teaching a writing or a lab course. In my case, I'm reading 25 percent more papers than I did last year.

Well, I guess that, if nothing else, we can say we're equal in that regard. Plus, some of last year's newbies have been "recruited" to various committes and such. I was doing those things already, so I didn't have to weather that shock.

But catching up on friends and other colleagues wasn't the only reason I was happy to go to the reception. All right, I'll level with you: The food was really good. There were Indonesian-style chicken satays and spicy sauce for dipping them. They were a nice complement to the vegetable somosas, the spicy fried shrimp and, of course, rice. And there was some sort of spicy sliced beef, which was also very tasty. As for dessert: I got so involved in conversation that I missed out on the cheesecake. But the berry pie was nice.

Now that I've made you hungry, I'll tell you the best thing, or at least the most interesting--at least for me--about being at the reception. I could see how some people had changed in just a few months. One of last year's newbies had a baby since the last time I saw her; another got married. Others got grants.

And they all said I seemed "different" this year--"in a good way." Yes, every one of them said that! A couple of them knew that I've had my operation; they asked how it went. For the others, I just smiled--not without a little bit of mystery!--and thanked them. Finally, a Biology prof said, "You look so much better. It's not just your physical attractiveness, though. You just seem so calm. You're not apologizing for yourself."

She's definitely right about the last part. Even before she said that, I was noticing that I wasn't seeing myself as the "other", or mentally putting an asterisk next to my name or the box marked "F." Or, for that matter, putting an asterisk next to my job title. I am teaching; I am writing: Therefore, I belonged in that reception--and belong in the college--as much as anybody did or does. And I had every right to talk to that Biology prof, to the Director of Academic Advisement, to my colleagues and office staff in the department in which I teach, to the Dean I saw yesterday--just as anyone else has that right, and the right to talk to any man, woman or child with whom they want to talk, and who's willing to talk with them.

I'm just learning how not to apologize for myself. People have long told me that I need to do that. Better late than never, right?

Now I'm recalling a remark someone made some time ago. This person--someone who once called himself my friend--and I had gone to a memorial service on the night of Transgender Remembrance Day last year. Before the service began, I circulated throughout the church's reception area and talked to a few people. During the service, I was one of the many people who walked up to the altar and read a memorial to someone who was murdered over her gender identity. And, after the service, we stayed for a buffet dinner.

On our way home, this person said, "You know, I've never seen you so relaxed. It's the first time I've seen you and you weren't defensive. You let your guard down, and it was nice."

Funny he should say that. Even when we were having good times together, I often felt as if I had been on trial simply for being who I am. I didn't realize that until I spent some time away from him. And, I'm sure, he didn't realize, and probably still doesn't realize, what he was doing.

I started to feel that, for whatever reasons, he--again, like many other people I've met--felt that that I owed him some sort of justification for what I felt and thought, but that he was under no such obligation to me or anyone else. Lots of people act that way without realizing what they're doing. I mean, if you're a straight white cis male, nobody ever asks you to rationalize your preference for women or, for that matter, Dockers or your favorite beer. Trust me, I know that from experience.

Fortunately for me, these days I don't spend much time around people who think they're entitled to an explanation and defense of every detail of my life. Some want to understand more than they do; I'm happy to help in whatever ways I can. Still others genuinely want to offer support; I am always happy for that.

As for the ones who expect a rationale and defense from you simply for being: They do it in the guise of trying to "understand" you. But what they really want is for you to help them reinforce the status quo that affords them some sort of privilege you don't have. In other words, it is, at best, a form of patronizing--or simply to make them feel less guilty about feeling superior to you.

At least today I didn't have to defend myself against anybody like that. That's why I didn't have to apologize for myself. For that reason alone, it was a really good day for me.

The Power of Privilege

Today was another one of those gorgeous days that I wouldn't mind, oh, about 300 times a year. It was on the high end of mild, almost warm, with hardly a cloud in the sky and a breeze off the East River. In other words, it was a great day for a long walk and to spend more time envying everyone who was riding his or her bike.

And now I find myself thinking about what an odd combination of privilege and suppression my life had been. Until six years ago, one would assume that I had it all: I am white; I was perceived to be male and presumed to be something within the spectrum of heterosexuality: Yeah, he's kinda weird. But he's got a girlfriend, though she's not what I expected, either.

Yet...There was so much I could not express, even if I had the means for doing so. Yet...There was so much I could leave unsaid. Yet...I was acquiring the means, as the necessity developed and began to float like a bubble from the depths to the surface. Yet...I had the means to make that necessity not- so- apparent. Yet...

When you have privilege, you don't have to be particularly bright or articulate. Does anybody remember George W. Bush? When you don't have it, you are painfully aware of not only your own limitations, but those of the means that you've acquired, or have been given to you, up to that point in your life. And for those who, for whatever reasons, don't develop an awareness of the gaps in their means--in other words, those who know only that they're desperate and alienated and angry--the results can't be anything but terrible: a life of Emerson's quiet desperation if they're lucky, violent or otherwise pointless death if they're not.

I could walk around with a woman on my arm and not say a thing. But I could not tell her why--as I told more than one--she should get as far away from me as she should if she wants to emerge with her sanity intact; that no matter how much she loved me, she could not keep at bay the jaws that were closing in on me.

Why am I thinking of these things now? Well, this afternoon, my walk took me through Socrates Sculpture Park. There, I encountered Rick and Linda, and their two young kids. They're a very sweet-looking family: If the plumber's union put out a calendar like the firefighters have, he'd be on it, and she is adorably cute, as are their kids.

In other words, they're a picture of what most people envision when they think about what type of family life they'd like to have--the blue-collar version, anyway.

They're also about the most unpretentious people you can imagine. They've lived in the neighborhood all of their lives and wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

Every exchange I've had with them in the seven years I've lived in the neighborhood has been friendly and folksy. I don't know what they told their kids about me, but they, like their parents, have always related to me as however I was presenting myself, and never questioned my transition.

Rick had just gone on a kayak ride offered by a local club. Linda said she'd never do it. I said that I've paddled a kayak before and would do it again, but I couldn't today: I've just had surgery, I said.

"So that's why we haven't seen you this summer," Rick realized.

I nodded. And I anticipated the next question one of them might have asked: "Yes, that surgery."

"Well, you look happy. How do you feel?," Linda wondered.

"Tired but ecstatic," I said. "I haven't had any pain. I went back to work, and have just enough energy to do that. But I'm fine."

They both expressed their happiness for me and Rick mentioned that he saw a program about the operation "with a woman doctor who, at the end of the show, said that she had it herself."

"Dr. Marci Bowers. My surgeon."

Their eyes lit up. "Wow, you went to her?"

And we talked some more. I realized that his position in this world is not so different from what mine had been. Yet I did not begrudge him for it, mainly because he's a nice man and has always treated me well. And Linda has the privilege of being a pretty white woman who has had the choice of devoting herself to her children. She works part-time and has returned to school, but she is able to arrange her schedule around her kids: Even if she loses some income, they can live on what Rick makes. I am happy for her.

Now I realize the reason why today I don't begrudge anyone his or her privilege, whatever it may be-- wealth, social background, looks or simply being born in the "right" body. It is this: While those who have privilege may not understand those who do not, their privilege gives them the opportunity to learn. I realize that, very often, my ability to learn and to empathise with other people has been constricted by the anger I felt over my own situation. I suspect that is also true for many whose lives have been circumscribed by that over which they have no control. We are so consumed with our own predicament, and must spend so much of our emotional and possibly physical resources simply to survive it , that sometimes we can't or don't empathise with those who may just be willing to make some effort to do the same for us.

This is not to say that I blame us for our own problems. What I mean is that experience can lead to knowledge, but it doesn't always lead to understanding--or, more accurately, the means to understanding--much less empathy. All you have to do is look at how much violence (whether physical, emotional or otherwise) the disenfranchised commit on each other to see what I mean.

Those who are not in those dire situations can reflect upon it from another perspective, with different eyes, if you will.

Now, I'm certainly not saying that all people with privilege will use it in the ways I just described. I know that as well as anybody can. However, change happens from one person to the next, not through mandates from above. Every time someone with privilege--however that is defined--sincerely relates to someone who doesn't, or at least makes the effort, that is a victory, however small. Every time a cis-gender person treats a trans person as a member of his or her real or figurative family, it's a step forward. That, of course, is the lesson I've learned from the relationship my parents and I have developed. And, of course, from Millie and Bruce.

So I have come to realize that instead of resenting those who have some privilege that I don't, I can use that privilege as a resource: If nothing else, their relative serenity of mind is a good starting point for an honest conversation in which there is at least the hope of finding understanding.

People like Rick and Linda may not have seen all of the spiritual and emotional storms I've endured. But they understand that I endured days filled with them before meeting them in the park on a day "excellent and fair." If their privilege, such as it is, allows them that understanding, I am happy for it.

Stories: The Assumption and Woodstock

Today is the Feast of the Assumption. Having gone to Catholic school, I should know what's celebrated on this date.

As it turns out, the Assumption refers to the Virgin Mary's physical ascencion into Heaven at the end of her life. Some churches teach, and people believe, that Mary never passed through death; she entered Heaven body and soul. But others believe that she died and, three days later, she was resurrected and assumed into Heaven. This is seen as an homage or precursor to the death and ascenscion of Jesus or as a preview of the Final Judgment, when all of the dead will be resurrected and, along with the living, judged.

I must say that the Final Judgment seems immensely unfair to whoever may be living at the time it happens. After all, the sins and misdeeds of the long-dead will be forgotten by that time, or the memories of them will not be fresh. Then again, I recall what Shakespeare's Antony said upon the death of Caesar: "The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones." So maybe it all evens out...

The odd thing is that there is no actual record of Mary's death, and people at the time did not know what happened to her. She was one of those people you see one day, and the next she's gone. Her assumption was essentially an apocryphal tale, a legend: Nowhere in the Scriptures does it specifically talk about Mary's fate. However, Pope Pius XII (who helped Nazis escape to South America) defined the Assumption as dogma for the Roman Catholic Church, and cited several scriptural verses as evidence of her corporeal and spiritual ascent. Sceptics have used those very same verses to discredit the notion of the Assumption.

Today's feast is actually a national holiday in several countries--including France, where laicite has been the official policy for more than a century. (I recall trying to cash a traveler's check once on la fete; no bank or exchange was open anywhere!) When I was in Catholic school, we were expected to attend mass on that date. I don't recall how or whether such a policy was enforced, as school was out for the summer.

Being the sort of kid I was, I wondered what people would look like when they were resurrected. Did those who lost limbs regain them? Or what about people who went blind or deaf: Would they be able to see and hear?

Now, if I believed in the story of the assumption, you know what I, as a post-surgery transgender woman, would ask!

Today, as it happens, is also the 40th anniversary of the first day of Woodstock. Now, I rather doubt that anyone consciously chose to start the world's most mythologized musical festival on the Feast of the Assumption.

So, other than for their coincidence, why should I talk about the Assumption and Woodstock in the same entry--one in a blog about my life as a transgender woman, no less?

Well...let's see...Half a million people went to the Woodstock festival. The youngest people who were there (save for the babies conceived during that heady time) are well into middle age, or even older. Some are already dead; in not too many years, others will die off in almost as rapid succession as World War II veterans are dying now. One day--most likely not in my lifetime--there won't be anyone left who was there, and there will be few people who could remember that time.

That means that Woodstock will become an event that will survive because of the stories told--in whatever ways--about it. Of course, we have film and video footage of David Crosby confessing to the crowd that he was scared shitless, as he and Stills, Nash and Young were performing together publicly only for the second time. We have the sounds and images of performers as diverse as Jimi Hendrix, Melanie Safka, Joe Cocker and Elvis and pictures of long-haired young people, their tattered clothes soaked from rain that soaked but did not cancel the second day of performances, chanting, hugging, and smoking.

For people who weren't yet born in the middle of August, 1969, those images and the music of those performances are Woodstock. And those young people--and anyone else who wasn't there (including yours truly, who was, let's say, just a bit younger than most of the people who was there)--reconstruct, in their minds, something they call "Woodstock." Even though the name of that music festival has become a kind of shorthand for "peace, love, dope and music." or "sex, drugs and rock'n'roll," no two people have exactly the same story about it in their minds.

Now, as for the Assumption--if it indeed happened--there hasn't been anyone who was alive at that time, much less saw the event, for about two thousand years. And, of course, there aren't any written, much less audio or cinematic, records of the event. Even if someone had been there and written an account, or if video were available (Young people have a hard time imagining a world without cell phones, which was, of course, the world of Woodstock!), records would have been made from the point of view of whoever was recording it. You remember what Cicero said: Victor Imperatus, or the winners write the histories. When you consider that, even in the most powerful nations, the majority of people up to about 150 years ago couldn't read or write their names, any and all record-keeping, much less the stories told about events, were skewed toward a rather small segment of the population.

Anyway, even if there were record the Assumption, who would have written or painted them? And, as for Woodstock, most of the attendees as well as the performers came from some degree or another of privilege. The poor kids were working to pay for school or support themselves or their families--or were slogging through the jungles of Vietnam.

And so all we have of either event are stories--told by people who come from narrow segments of society.

And if you are reading this, you are reading the story of someone who, though not born to privilege and not living in luxuries, has had at least other good fortune that enabled her transition to the life she had envisioned for herself. I mean, I'm not exactly a salt miner or a field hand. I have some education, such as it is, which has allowed me to acquire, if not a lot of material prosperity, at least some choices in my life that my parents and lots of other people haven't had.

I mean, let's face it: In order to undergo GRS, you have to have a certain level of literacy and education in order to find, much less use, the relevant information. And you need the time and means to acquire it. Finally, you have to come up with a way to pay for the surgery and other expenses related to your change, and to be able to take time off from making a living so that you can recover from your surgery. As it happens, as a college instructor, I have that time off.

So...the Assumption and Woodstock are stories rather than events for most people. And so am I, dear reader (oh, how quaint!): If you are reading this, you know me by the stories I'm telling you about myself and the world around me. Now, I have never been anything but honest. But my point-of-view is not all-encompassing, as is the point of view of anyone else. And, of course, one day, I'll be gone, and so will anyone who knew me now or at any other time in my life.

So I know stories about the Assumption and Woodstock. And if you've been reading my blog, you know a few about me. If you know me, you know others. In the end, whatever believe in and whom we love (which are really all that matters in life, as far as I can tell), all we have are those stories

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.