Umbrella Term

People often conflate the terms "transsexual" and "transgender".  As I understand it, I am transsexual, and what differentiates me from a transgender is that I actually live, and have lived, as a woman and have taken hormones and undergone surgery.  A transgender person, meanwhile, is someone who crosses gender norms.  A drag queen or king is an obvious example of that, but as one infographic tells us, most of us are at least a little transgendered.  It's kind of funny to think that, as a transsexual woman, I can also be transgendered (at least, according to society's norms) because I fix my bikes (and, sometimes, other people's) and don't always dress or act in feminine ways.

Anyway, here's the infographic, which originally appeared on Flux:

 

No Move, At Least Not Now

I've decided that I'm not moving in with her after all.  She did a couple of things that confirmed a couple of things I'd suspected about her--and can't live with, for health and other reasons.


She'd asked me to come and talk with her.  But she, knowing full well that I don't drink, swallowed five martinis as I was eating.  And we hardly talked at all.  

And that was the least objectionable thing she's done lately.


On top of what I can't live with for health and logistical reasons, I noticed something else about her:  That she wanted me in her apartment, and in her life, because she liked the idea of having someone as exotic as I am around her and her friends.  


Just what I need, right?

DOMA: Defense of What?

Imagine this: According to the laws of your state, you are married.  But, according to the Federal government, you're not.

For anyone caught in that predicament, it's more than an inconvenience.  It could mean, among other things, a denial of benefits to the one who's committed his or her life to you.  

That is exactly the bind in which some people have found themselves for years.  While a few states have legalized same-sex marriages, most haven't.  Nor has the Federal Government.  In fact, homophobia is, in essence, encoded in Title 3 of the odious Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA).  It specifically does not recognize unions between people of the same sex.

Now Attorney General Eric Holder has said the Department of Justice will not defend that statute of DOMA.  While I applaud him on his stance, I wonder how much effect it will really have.  After all, Congress can still uphold it.  And that's what the House of Representatives will almost certainly do.  

So, while I hold out hope, I won't hold my breath.

Third, Or Not Specified

Lately I've read a couple of interesting gender-related stories.  One comes from Nepal, the other from Australia.


In the conservative Himalayan nation, which was a monarchy less than three years ago, this year's census will include a "third gender" category. This action came as a result of an order from that country's Supreme Court  mandating that the government encact laws to protect transgender people.


I think it's interesting that such things should happen in such a conservative country.  Then again, Spain, which was considered one of the most conservative and staunchly Catholic countries in Europe, if not the world, legalized gay marriage a few years ago.  So, a couple of years ago,  did Iowa, which--depending on whose definition you accept--is at least partially in the Bible Belt.


So why would jurisdictions not known for being avant garde do something that sanctions what many of its citizens oppose, at least in theory?


I think that answer can be found at least in part in something a Nepalese official said about being able to count and locate transgender people.  Governments everywhere like to keep tabs on people. And conservatives like order, or at least the appearance of it.  I am reminded of something that a Dutch minister once said about his country:  Its "liberal" policies, like the legality of marijuana, are actually rooted in the deeply bourgeois Calvinism that defined the country for centuries.  Nobody, he explained, likes order more than a Calvinist, or someone who's been influenced by Calvinism.  So, he said, by legalizing marijuana and prostitution, providers and customers are no longer criminals and are instead citizens who are bound by the responsibilities of, and entitled to the protections of, Dutch civil law.  In other words, the government can keep some kind of control over them.


That, by the way, one reason (along with having a gay daughter) why Dick Cheney has voiced his support for gay marriage, while Barack has not.


Speaking of control:  How much of it can anyone have over someone who's gender is "not specified?"  That's the case of  Norrie, a 49-year-old Australian who was born male and had gender reassignment surgery twenty years ago.   Norrie, who goes by only one name, was "ecstatic" about surgery but frustrated over having to take hormones and over dating men who, when they "found out I was a trannie, told me I wasn't female."  Some of them threatened violence.


Finally, Norrie decided "Nobody can define me as male, and nobody can define me as female."  Two doctors agreed and, as a result, Norrie now has papers that say "Sex Not Specified."    


In one sense, I'm happy to see this.  I have long felt that there are more than two genders.  While I am female in my mind and spirit, I know that some things about me are, and will always be, male.  Some have to do with my experiences, but I think that others have to do with innate characteristics.  I am content, and in many ways comfortable, in living as what most people would see as a straight woman (even if I am, in fact, bisexual).  I claim my right to so live; at the same time, I support the right of people to be more androgynous or to live by whatever else their gender identity and sexuality might be.


On the other hand, the ruling puts Norrie in a bind:  Her gender identity, while unbound from the gender binary, is still defined by the government, which could (at least in theory) change Norrie's status as it sees fit.  Keeping Norrie and other people dependent on a government to define who they are can't be anything but limiting.  Under those circumstances, how does one travel, particulary to a place that rigidly enforces the gender binary and still outlaws all forms of sex that don't involve a man getting on top of a woman.  


Still, I think that the Australian Government's issuing documents in your name without the gender distinction is one the better things that could have happened for a lot of people.Some day, perhaps (though probably not in my lifetime) people will have the liberty as well as the means to live by whatever they think is right for them. 

Growing Old As We're Starting To Live

I've been asked to co-facilitate a transgender forum on aging at a conference for LGBT older adults next month.  I've agreed to do it, knowing that my qualifications to do it consist of the following:

• I am trangendered
• I am aging.  (Then again, I guess we all are.)

The invitation got me to thinking, though, about what aging means for us in the LGBT community, and for transgenders in particular.

So far, the most trenchant thought that has emenated from my pretty little head (ha!) is this:  Aging in the LGBT community has everything to do with its youth-centeredness.  In fact, the way we age is the very reason why the LGBT world is as youth-centered as it is.  It's not so much that we're trying to avoid or fight back our aging; it's the fact that we--most of us, anyway--only get to live as who and what we are at a realtively late age that causes us to live in such a youth-centered milieu.

Even with the increased acceptance of LGBT people (the recent hate crimes notwithstanding), very few bisexuals, fewer gays and lesbians , and even fewer transgenders, have the opportunity to spend our adolescence and early adulthood as the people we actually are.   Most gays and lesbians live closeted lives until they are old enough to move out of their families' homes, and some continue to deny their need to love and be loved in their own ways long after they have become independent of the families, communities  and schools that gave birth to and reared them and inculcated them with their communities' and cultures' values about families and other sorts of relationships--including the kinds of relationships people should have with themselves.  

Even gays and lesbians raised in the most loving of families and in the most accepting communities face hostility somewhere, some time. The result is something I've seen in those students of mine who grew up with violence, whether it was physical, verbal, mental, emotional or spiritual, and whether it came from their peers, members of their families or communities, or their governments and their agencies of enforcement.  Some people come out of those experiences shell-shocked; others are very canny or what people would call "street-smart", and still others are formed or deformed by their anger and resentments.  But nearly all of them do not have the opportunity to learn how to develop or maintain relationships in ways that their peers from more secure and stable environments learn.  And, because so many of them also come from homes that are dysfunctional in one way or another, they may know that they want something different but have not had any models from whom they can learn how to build it in their own lives.

Most gays and lesbians don't grow up with any models of how they can build their relationships and their lives.  All most of them see when they're growing up are heterosexual relationships, and some of those aren't very nurturing of the spirits of the people in them.  And, of course, nearly all of the love and familial relationships depicted in popular, and even higher, culture, are of that variety.

What happens, then, is that gays and lesbians start to learn how to express love and build relationships that suit them later--sometimes much later--than heterosexuals do those things.  Most teenagers have some experience of dating members of the other gender; many (I won't venture a guess as to how many) have sex and some actually learn what it means to love, and be loved, in an intimate way by a member of the "opposite" gender.  Most gay teens and adolescents don't have those experiences; those who do almost never have the opportunity to have those experiences publicly.  If you are a boy dating a girl or vice-versa, even if your family, friends and others in your community don't like whomever you're dating, they still support your urge to date members of the "opposite" gender, mainly because they're seen as stepping stones to marriage and family.

So, what a straight sixteen-year-old experiences is not a part of a gay person's life until he or she is in her twenties, thirties or even later.  And for transgenders--and, interestingly enough, bisexuals--that sort of experience may come later still.  I began to live as the woman I am in middle age, and I have been living my life only for seven years now.  That means I am just beginning to learn how to relate to people, and express love (which includes, but is not limited to, sexuality) as a woman, rather than as a female who had to channel herself through a filter of maleness.  

That, by the way, is the reason--I think--why one can't predict the sexuality of a person who transitions.  One of the reasons, along with finances, why I didn't start my transition earlier in my life was that I thought, as most people thought, that a true male-to-female transsexual was attracted to men.  It happened that the first male-to-females who had sexual reassignment surgery did indeed date, and in some cases married, men.  Christine Jorgensen comes immediately to mind, and it's hard to imagine how she, not to mention society, might have been different if she didn't fit into the roles that were considered acceptable for women in the 1950's, when she made her transition.

So I had to spend  a lot of years, not only alienated from my own sense of who I am, but also of how to relate to anyone else, whether in a sexual or more platonic way.  The sense of myself I could and would have formed in my teen years, and the kinds of relationships I might have developed as a result, are parts of my life I'm only beginning to discover--at an age when my parents were already grandparents.  

Of course, there are many other issues involved in aging for LGBT people, and transgenders in particular.  But I never realized until now that the youth-orientedness of our community was really a manifestation of the fact that we, in essence, start our lives later than straight people and cisgenders.

Beryl Burton and Lana Lawless

I am going to mention Lana Lawless and Beryl Burton in the same post. Why?, you ask.

Well, I just happened to read about both of them today.  All right, you say, but what else do they have in common?

Not much, I'll admit.  But Beryl Berton is relevant to a question brought up by what Lana Lawless has done.

Ms. Lawless has made the news during the last couple of days because she's suing the Ladies Professional Golf Association because they won't let her play in their tournaments.  Why is that?

The LPGA is excluding her for the same reason they would probably exclude me, even if I met the organization's other requirements.  Yes, Ms. Lawless (Don't you just love the name?) is transgendered.  She had her sexual reassignment surgery in 2005. 

The LPGA, and much of general public--even some who are fully willing to accept that Ms. Lawless is as much of a woman as Lisa Ann Horst--argue that Lawless and other transgender women have advantages conferred upon them as a result of their XY chromosomes.  Although I don't have any statistics handy, I'd bet that, on average, we are taller and heavier than most women born with XX chromosomes.  Also, we have broader and denser bone structures (which is the reason why, even after years of taking estrogen, which weakens bones, osteoporosis is all but unknown in male-to-female transgenders) and, usually, more muscle mass. 

Now, it's easy to see how such differences would confer advantages on us (well, not me, given  my age the shape I'm in!) in sports like American football--or in basketball, where height makes right.  But even in the latter sport, mens' (or trans-women's ) advantage isn't as great as one might think, since basketball players of both genders are in the top percentile for height.  (I mean, really, how much advantage does someone who's seven feet tall have over someone who's six-foot-nine?)  And, while I admit I don't know much about golf, as I've neither played the game nor followed the sport, I still have to wonder just how much of  an advantage one gender really has over an other.  Some argue that someone with XY chromosomes can make longer shots, but somehow I suspect there's more to winning a golf tournament than that.  Otherwise, why would there be so much of an audience for it, and why would even social golfers spend so much time practicing.

My point is, it's commonly assumed that if a woman with XY chromosomes were to enter a women's competition, she would dominate it and eliminate the women's competition's/league's/race's raison d'etre--or, at least, eliminate its audience and sponsorship.

That brings me to Beryl Burton.  She dominated British women's cycling at a time when it was coming to its own.  In fact, she was arguably as well-known as the male racers of her time.

That's because, at one point, she held the 12-hour time trial record.  Not the women's record, mind you--the record.  Moreover, she held that record for two years (1967-69), and at 277.25 miles,  she had an advantage of five miles over the men's record.  

Think about it:  She was riding faster, over a distance, than most of the male professional cyclists of her time.  And her record still stands as the women's record; only a handful of men have beaten it--even though she was riding in the days before disc wheels, carbon frames and skinsuits.

You might argue that she is an exception.  She is certainly unusual, but she's not the only female athlete to have held  a record for both men and women. Such a thing is relatively common in swimming and a few other non-contact sports.  As an example, when Gertrude Ederle set the record for swimming across the English Channel, her time was a full two hours faster than the previous record, which had been set by a man.

So, the examples I've set out beg this question:  How much of men's dominance of sports is really due to men's actual or alleged superior athleticism?  Could it be that men's dominance in sports other than American football, basketball, or a few others, is really due to the facts that they've been playing longer and that there is more of an infrastructure, if you will, of sports for boys than there is for girls?  Even after nearly four decades of Title IX, it's a lot easier to find a team, league or program for boys than it is to find their counterparts for girls, particlarly in smaller and rural communities.  

And what does that portend for the future of transgenders in sport?

My New Blog

Today I started something new.

No, I didn't meet the love of my life or establish a business.  I also didn't undertake a construction project or enter another twelve-step program.  Nor did I write the first paragraph of my latest book.  (I'm still trying to publish the one I've already written and finish the one I've been working on!)  However, this new beginning does involve writing.

It's the new blog that I more or less promised a while back.  It's called Mid-Life Cycling and, as its name implies, will focus on the experiences of a female cyclist of, shall we say, a certain age and an unusual life circumstance.  In it, I will certainly talk about past and current rides as well as equipment I have used and am using.  

The real reason I've started it is because I've come to realize that, apart from a few family members, cycling and writing have really been the only constants throughout my life.  Almost everything else in my life--including my gender identity, transition and surgery-- is, was or became entangled with one or both. So, you will probably find posts on any number of topics and subjects.  But they all relate, in one way or another, to cycling--or my experiences of it, anyway.  I don't plan to focus on my experience as a transgender or transsexual:  After all, I've done, and will probably continue to do, plenty of that in this blog.  However, I will probably mention it, as it is affecting, and being affected by, my cycling.  

Finally...The way it looks now is not "set in stone."  Like the content, the layout and overall visual style (to the extent that I have it) will evolve. 

So, whether you're a cyclist or someone who just wants to read about someone who wants to read about how someone is navigating her new life as a middle-aged woman, I hope you'll read Mid-Life Cycling and steer your friends to it.

A Nobel Laureate and a Full Professor

Barack's daughters mentioned the Nobel Prize, the family dog's birthday and the upcoming long weekend in the same sentence. Not bad for kids who haven't even finished their first decade.

So why am I mentioning it? Because I'm going to talk about winning the Nobel Peace Prize and academic titles in the same breath, for essentially the same reasons Sasha and Malia made their breathless utterance.

Yesterday, I was talking--well, I had an exchange, to be more precise--with another prof in my department. She once held a couple of fairly prominent positions, but she essentially missed a couple of years due to an "illness" and is probably--or should be--very grateful she has tenure. Of that latter fact she let me know in no uncertain terms. I forget why, exactly, but she made it known.

Then somehow another professor's name came up in relation to a sort of academic blood feud that sometimes boils over at departmental meetings. She talked about some of the strange things this other professor--whom I tried to, but never could, like--did and got away with. "I guess she has tenure, too," I commented.

"She's a full professor," she reminded me in a bellowing intonation.

I probably should have known that. But, really, I don't pay attention to such things. I know who the President, provost and deans of the college are. I also know my department chair and the chairs of most other departments. And I know that a couple of profs have been teaching there since the day the college opened, and a couple of others for almost that long. But other than that, I really don't know who has the higher or lower stature among the faculty. And, truth be told, I don't much care. I talk to people for my own reasons, not because of their titles or status.

You might say that I'm not impressed by very many people. I am willing and learning to love; I am bound to care, but I have little or no reason to be in awe. And I have never done well in situations in which I was supposed to be impressed with someone because of his or her credentials or because someone else said I should be in the thrall of that person.

I'm not some kid feigning the insouciance of her elders. Kids (or adults) who do that are merely insolent. Rather, I have seen that giving someone respect simply for his or her title, or withholding said respect for lack of said credentials, is no different than judging someone for the color of his or her skin, or for any number of other external characteristics.

Actually, I feel I'm rather like Sasha and Malia who respect and admire their father for winning the Nobel Prize even if they don't quite know what it is. But. at the same time, they're only but so impressed, and are so to the degree that they are only because the announcement of his winning the prize came, from so many commentators, in tones that bordered on the reverential. So all those girls know is that their daddy did something that much of the world admires. They do, too, but to them, it's no more important than their dog or weekend.

The first time I saw those kids, I knew they were smart. They haven't disabused me of that notion.

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.

Miss Manners I'm Not

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

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

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

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

"You go first," I commanded.

"Thank you, Miss."

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Would Grandma Think of an Escapee? A Parolee?

The other day was my maternal grandmother's birthday. Today is the anniversary of her death. The latter, I realized much later, sent me into one of the deeper troughs of the depression in which I spent about much of my life as Nick.

I can't honestly say that I've mourned her--or anyone else's--death in a while. Perhaps that sounds callous. But for the past few years I have not had a new death to mourn, unless you count Nick. Yes, at times I mourned him because even though I wasn't happy when I was living as him, there were pleasurable moments. And I certainly learned a few things from him. But there were days that it simply didn't seem fair that he lived and he suffered--for my sake. Not only did he not have the opportunity to bask in the light and warmth of his flame, he also did not have the chance to receive gratitude, or any other reward, from me. That simply didn't seem fair!

And that very lack of justice is the reason why mourning becomes, after a while, futile. We all die; almost none of us gets to pick the time or way in which we'll leave this planet. Grandma was so ill that it was all but impossible to determine her precise cause of death. But would it really have mattered which of the complications from her diabetes killed her? To some doctors and forensic scientists, yes. But not to anyone else.

I think about her now and wonder what sort of relationship I could have, or could have had, with her were she still on this planet. If she were, she'd be 96 years old. I can't say I've spent a lot of time with people around that age. Then again, not many other people could say they have, either.

I loved my grandmother because, well, she was my grandmother. But I liked her because she always seemed to know how I felt. Sometimes I think she suspected my gender-identity issues, or had fleeting thoughts that I was gay, or at least not straight. But she knew that I wasn't a "normal" boy: I could see it from the expression on her face when I showed no interest in toy soldiers or erector sets.

What would she think of what I've become? I'm sure it would be difficult for her to understand, as she was certainly a daughter of her place and time. She was also religious, but I've found that a person's religious beliefs don't always determine how or whether a person will accept someone different from him or her self. I've experienced kindness and compassion from some people who worship in institutions run by men who think that what I've done is wrong, or even worthy of a death sentence. (Actually, a lot of people extend what they think their religions say about homosexuality to transgender people when, in fact, the holiest documents of their faith may have said nothing at all about homosexuality or transgenderism.) And someone who has a PhD in gender studies and no discernible religious beliefs ended a friendship we once had.

Somehow I don't think Grandma ever even had a conversation with anyone in which those subjects came up. She probably never knew anyone about whom she could say with certainty that he or she was not heterosexual. That may have had to do with being in a time or place where people were more covert about their lifestyles, much less their inner lives. And it may also have had to do with the fact that, well, she didn't know or didn't care.

I can't deny that there would be times she would have looked at me and seen her grandson. Even if I was an unusual boy, it was as a boy that she knew me. She may have even wished that I weren't trans or that I didn't make the changes I've made.

Then again, she was always so proud of the things I did, whether they were the grades I got in school, becoming an altar boy or simply taking a long bike ride. I think it would make her very happy that I write and have been published and that I teach in a college. I also think she would be even happier to know that I have become someone with whom people talk about their fears and secrets--none of which I've betrayed on this blog! She might not like the fact that some young student got pregnant out of wedlock, but I think she'd be really proud to know that such a student sought me out for advice.

I haven't treated some people very well. But I have made every effort to be better, especially to my parents. And I really would rather deal with people through kindness and gentleness than through hostility and suspicion. Sometimes I'm still on "high alert" or I respond to people as if they're more bigoted than they may actually be. But I'm learning who is and isn't, and simply spending as much of my time and effort as I can with those who aren't, or who simply don't care.

Yes, I would like for Grandma to know who I am now. I think we could've had a nice relationship. But then again, Grandma died at 68 and was--physically as well as emotionally--much, much older than that. Even in comparison to other women of her age, she wasn't healthy. By the end, she was clearly suffering, though she never lost her will to live. At times it was almost painful to see: Her body had become a prison, but she wouldn't dream of escaping.

That's not what I did, though. I finally embraced what was within me. And I was released. I think she might've appreciated that.

I Can See Clearly Now

Tonight is one of those really classic early autumn nights, even if it's a bit chilly for this time of year. The air is crisp, almost brisk, and the sky is clear. In fact, it is on nights like these that one can truly call the sky "clear": On winter nights, pinpricks of light punctuate grow brighter against the dark and the cold: Chiaroscuro is not the same thing as clarity.

But on a night like this can't be anything but clear. The moon and the stars are almost pure light, and everything under them doesn't only reflect that light; it radiates the soft glow of that light.

Nights on which rain doesn't fall will become clearer all through the fall, until around Thanksgiving or so. Then the light of the stars and moon will begin to freeze in place and will remain static, like portraits of memory.

But for now the sky can't be anything but clear, as it is on such an early-fall night.

It was around this time of the year--I was fourteen, if I recall correctly-- I first heard Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now", it didn't seem odd--in some way I couldn't explain--that the song, in Nash's beautiful rendition, came out when it did. And every time I heard it thereafter, I felt some kind of solace every time I heard it.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I've been prayin' for
It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.

Look all around, there's nothin' but blue skies
Look straight ahead, nothin' but blue skies

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.

Or hope, anyway. As you can imagine, my struggle with my gender identity and sexuality was particularly fierce. I was on the wrestled and played soccer for my school. I hoped that doing such things, and taking extra science courses and mechanical drawing as an elective, would somehow make me more masculine. But the boys on those teams--and, I suspect, my coaches--knew that no such thing was happening. They would make me run wind sprints long after the other boys were finished. The good news was that I got into really good shape--in body, anyway.

Even when I won a match or made a good play, other boys would taunt me. They wouldn't call me "faggot," "queer" or any other derogatory names. Rather, they'd point out, in a mocking way, some girl who'd developed or sexy teacher and coax, in an even more mocking way, that they'd tell that girl or teacher that I had the "hots" for them.

Of course, they thought I was gay. Later, I would identify myself in that way only because I wasn't attracted to women in the same way as other guys. Then again, I wasn't attracted to men in the same way as gays I knew.

Those pinpricks of clarity would remain frozen in the recesses of my mind. I had no way of articulating what I felt--at least not to other people, as most people thought, as I did, that gay men were all "queens" and transsexuals were at least vaguely skeevy. Then again, the only trannies I knew about were Christine Jorgensen, Renee Richards and tranny hookers.

So, while I could viscerally feel my own desires, my lack of a language for them left me unable to see the meaning of them more clearly. That would take many, many more years.

At least I knew that it would be all about seeing clearly, seeing all the obstacles in my way. Hearing the song would give me hope for that; sometimes I had nothing more than a wish. But at least the points of light were there, even if the sky wasn't clear enough for them to shine on me,or I simply wasn't looking at them.

Tonight I looked at the clear fall sky.

Loving What Never Was

Have you ever looked at a photo of someone in his or her youth and said--to yourself or whoever happened to be in earshot--"Wow! I wish I knew him (or her) back then!"?

Or, have you ever had such a reaction to the photo of one who's departed?

About the first scenario: I had such a reaction to seeing a photo of Francoise Hardy from around 1969. I also wanted a time machine when a woman I dated in my youth showed me a photo of her father in his Navy uniform. The French chanteuse was beautiful and stylish; my old flame's dad was just pure-and-simple hot. And she knew that's what I was thinking.

About the second scenario: After seeing a photo of Albert Camus on the cover of one of his books--L'etranger, I think--I had a fantasy or two about him. He wasn't particularly handsome, but he had, at least in that photo, one of the most intelligent, if tense and turbulent, faces I'd ever seen. I'd had a similar reaction to seeing a photo of Virginia Woolf.

Anyway...About the only thing stranger than being in love with your own memory of someone is fantasizing about a past life that you never witnessed.

I met Sara and her boyfriend Rob a few weeks before my surgery. We got into an interesting and rather intense conversation that led to our exchanging phone numbers. During the ensuing days I was busy and otherwise preoccupied, as you can well imagine. Then, a couple of weeks after returning home from the surgery, I was taking a walk near Socrates Sculpture Park when I heard someone call "Justine!"

Sara was out with her friend Dee, whom she talked about when we first met. They invited me to dinner at their place the weekend before Labor Day. And now we've been talking frequently by phone.

Now, if the L's and the G's can talk about having "gaydar," what's the transgender equivalent? Whatever it is, it was set off the moment I met Sara and went to multiple alarms when I saw Dee. I knew that Sara is bisexual before she opened her mouth and that Dee is a what I will call "man-que": someone who, in many ways, is even more male than I ever was. But financial and other considerations--namely, her medical condition and her age--keep her from taking hormones, much less having surgery.

When I was at Sara and Dee's place, I had the feeling that Sara was developing feelings for me. She talked about things I will not discuss with anyone else, and she took to my breast--and shoulders--as one might with a family member one trusts completely.

One thing no amount of hormones or surgery will ever efface is the width of my shoulders. They're not quite of NFL linebacker dimensions, but they still have the breadth--if not the strength--of someone who used to lift weights, as I did every day for several years. Normally, I draw attention away from them by the way I dress: I often wear long scarves or blouses or sweaters with long vertical lines or with soft fabrics around the shoulders. People who cry, or simply prop their heads, on my shoulder appreciate that!

But that night I was wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top. So there was nothing between my shoulders and Sara, a fact not lost on her.

Tonight, she called me from the waiting room at a hospital. Her landlord, who is a good friend, has been sick and now the doctors have found cancer in his intestines. And Dee is having problems related to her lupus. "I really wish I had your shoulder right now," she said.

"Where are you? Which hospital?"

"Don't do that. You're still recovering from surgery. We'll meet soon."

"Yes, we will."

"You're so gentle."

"The only thing better than a man who can make a woman blush is another woman making a woman blush!"

"Oh! You're the best!"

"Well..."

"I love you. But I would've loved to've known Nick."

"No you wouldn't."

"You're so sweet and gentle. He must've been, too."

I let it go. It didn't seem the right time to talk about relationships I aborted or otherwise destroyed through my anger. I even warned people I dated not to get too close to me because the monster within me would emerge. I was never physically violent with any of them, but I was probably one of the cruelest people, emotionally, that any of them had ever encountered.

Sara never had to experience any of that. And she never will. Furthermore, I don't think I want to talk about it with her, simply because, frankly, talking about it seems rather pointless. What would she--or I--gain from it?

Besides, while she and I may be turning into each others' friends, I don't envision a sexual or romantic partnership with her. Truth is, I can't have sex with anyone just yet, although that may change soon. But even more to the point, I am in such a transition that I don't want to entangle myself that way--with her, with any other woman or with a man.

What's more, being so involved with someone who's fantasizing about someone I never was, or even just someone she never met, would just be too weird for me.

Singing for Every Tatter

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress.

Well, we know one thing about William Butler Yeats: He never wrote any ads for cosmetic surgeons!

So why am I thinking of this verse from his "Sailing to Byzantium"? Well, right now I am feeling those "tatters" in my "mortal dress." Actually, I might be feeling flab more than tatters: After all, it's been nearly three months since I've engaged in any meaningful (for me, anyway) physical activity.

That is why things that used to be so routine leave me exhausted. Such is the case now. All I did was my biannual switch-out. Some time around each equinox, I pack one season's clothes and accessories and unpack the other's. In this case, of course, it meant putting away my linen suit and dresses, my shorts and tank-tops and those wispy cotton skirts and tops, and taking out long-sleeved sweaters and blouses and my corduroy pants and wool skirts.

John, Millie's husband, was a huge help: He took me to the storage space I rent and did all of the lifting I would have done otherwise. Everyone should know at least one couple like them!

Still, just the packing and unpacking were as arduous as those climbs up the Alps and Pyrenees and Sierra Nevadas were on my bike. Well, I take that back: At least here, I'm at sea level, so oxygen (0r lack thereof) is not a problem.

What's odd is that I really don't mind feeling so tired: I guess you could say that it is a minor milestone for me.

I'll confess something: I've done a bit of shopping. And I'd forgotten how many articles of clothing I still had! Then again, at least a few things will wear out or end up in the Hour Children thrift shop before I make my next "swap." So, I guess it evens out.

But, as Nick, I never imagined I would have so much clothing as I have now! In fact, I think I have even more now than I did when I had two wardrobes (one for me and one for him).

So what am I going to do? I don't know. Right now, I'm laughing at the situation. I mean, what else can I do? I'd always wanted to be a woman, but who knew that I would become, in the words of Carol (Marci's partner), "such a woman" ?

Actually, Carol is not the only one who's called me that. And she's also not the only one to say it with exasperated affection, such as one feels for someone who is doing, for better or worse, the inevitable.

If I'd known that my current life--even with moments of fatigue like the ones I've experienced today--was inevitable, I would have....Oh, what can you do about the inevitable?

Well, I'll tell you what you can do: As long as it's not tragic, embrace it. I don't know how many times Bruce and other people have advised me to do exactly that. I wonder whether he or they knew that a moment like this was inevitable.

Sing, and louder sing, for every tatter in your mortal dress...Now there's advice Dr. Phil or Dr. Joyce Brothers would never give you.

And I'm tattered only for now. Hopefully, a good night's sleep will help me mend a bit.

Flying On The Ground Is Not Wrong, Just Inevitable

Tonight Millie and I went to a dance recital at LaGuardia Community College, where I used to teach.

The irony is that the only people I knew who were there were the choreographer, two of her dancers, her husband and, of course, Millie. None of the students, faculty or staff members--at least none that I recognized--were there.

Michio "Tami" Tanaka staged Nest Egg, a work in progress. It followed two other works--one abstract, the other a tragedy of sorts--and I liked hers best, not only because she's a friend.

One thing about Tami's work: Her dancers always seem to have great empathy, not only for whoever or whatever their portraying, or for each other, but also for whatever is the source of their movement and their vitality. They seem to have a kind of empathy, if you will, with the means as well as the subject of their expression. This, I think, is something that Michelangelo and Rodin also had in great abundance.

Nest Egg opens with a group of seemingly-pregnant dancers in a something that wasn't quite flight or a glide, and certainly wasn't fluttery. They were not quite earthbound, either.

Each of them deposits a very large ceramic "egg" in one of the nests. After some time, "chicks" emerge: Three black male dancers. I mention this because they, like their female counterparts, are very beautiful yet do not fit the stereotype of dancers, or at least the stereotype Balanchine articulated: "as white and thin as an apple's core." At least one of the female dancers was white (or seemed to be, anyway). She wasn't fat (as if I should say that about anybody!), but she looked as if her diet consisted of something besides yogurt. And, apparently, she retained at least some of what she ate.

Anyway, in the "nests," the female "birds" peck at, cajole and demonstrate such life skills as flapping wings to the "young" male "birds." Then, the latter are pushed out of their "nests" and the females resume their earlier movements, except that their "flights," while covering a wider range of ground than their earlier ones, also seem to have more discernible patterns. Then we see the males, finding their "wings" and wandering about and later returning with other young "birds." And one of the young females leaves an "egg" in one of the nests...

Sounds like a typical story. But the dancers weren't (thankfully!) wearing bird costumes. Rather, their outfits, while in avian shades of red and yellow, looked like some sort of Native American ceremonial outfits. And their movements were entirely human. So were their wordless interactions with each other.

I'm not a dance expert, but the piece seemed more emotionally than technically complex. And that is more than satisfying to me.

I wish I could have taken some photos or a video. But, as in most shows, flash is not permitted, and neither my camera nor my skills are good enough to take a photo that would look anything like what I saw in that environment.

As Millie and I left, I was about to lead us down a hallway that would have taken us to the doors through which we entered. But it was closed off, and we had to take the longest possible path to the entrance, where Millie's husband John picked us up. That wasn't so bad, though, because I took us down another hallway, where there was a ladies' room that none of the other spectators could've found, and which was cleaner than the others. Nothing like a ladies' room without a line, right?

And, for a moment, I felt like something between a spy and a ghost. I taught at LaGuardia from 2002 until 2005. During the first year I worked as Nick (and was spending most of the rest of my time as Justine); I returned as Justine for the first two years I lived full time in my true identity.

But it's wasn't only the four years that have elapsed since I last worked there, seeing no one I remember from that time or having had the operation that made me feel as I did. For one thing, at the time I was working there, I didn't yet know Tami. Also, I feel that I've changed in other ways since my days at LaGuardia.

You might say that in those days I was still embryonic. I was just learning what it would mean to live my whole life as a woman and how different people would react to my "change." When I started at LaGuardia, the only people to whom I'd "come out" were Jay, the people in my support group and Tammy. And, of course, "coming out" to Tammy put an end to our relationship, which is how I became a neighbor of Millie and Tami.

My feelings last night had an odd parallel with ones I had in my early days of living as Justine: that I was surviving on someone else's knowledge and life experience. Back then, I was drawing upon what Nick left me, if you will. I had some education and job skills, as well as other kinds of knowledge and memories, because of things Nick did. And, last night, I was navigating the school--and, I realized, so much else!--with what I learned from those days when I was making my transition and from the ensuing days when I was starting to create the life I had envisioned for myself.

It's still a work in progress. There's nothing wrong with that. After all, that's what Millie and I saw last night. I want to see it again.