Another New Beginning

So I've taught three days in my new life. Each one has ended the same way: I've been exhausted!

At least my fatigue has nothing to do with my students, other faculty or staff members or even any of the insanity that normally accompanies the beginning of any college semester. Rather, it is a reminder that I am indeed still recovering from my surgery.

Every one of the four classes I'm teaching is full. Cady Ann, the department secretary, told me they'd filled up by the end of the first day of registration. The college increased the maximum number of students enrolled in each class, then added overtallies to two of my classes, as well as many others in the college. The result is that I have 114 students, whereas I would have had only 90 (assuming the classes were at their maximum enrollments) last year. When you're grading papers rather than multiple-choice tests, that's quite a difference.

And, at the last minute, one of my courses was changed--from one I could teach in my sleep to one I'd never before taught. So I had to make up an entirely new syllabus. That cut a few hours off my sleep time.

The weird thing is that as tired as I've been, and with as many people who've been tugging at my sleeve, I don't think I've ever been so focused and simply present for my students, and everyone else. A few of my students from last year are in classes I'm teaching now; all of them have said that I look "different." They meant it in a positive way. So did some of my colleagues, in and out of my department, who said the same thing.

And it's interesting that I'm hearing the same words from people who, as far as I know, don't even talk to each other: "glowing," "radiant," "shining." They're describing the way I look to them, but they probably don't know that they were describing the way I've felt. Ever since the surgery, even on my more difficult days (which, actually, haven't been so bad), I've felt as if a sun were opening and refulgent inside me. It's as if I couldn't stop radiating joy, even if I'd wanted to. And why would I want that?

Some female faculty members and students--as well as two women who work in the Provost's office and another who works in the college cafeteria--embraced me and said, "Welcome." Yes, I shed a few tears--the good kind: the ones I can blame on the estrogen!

To think that, just a few years ago, I was snarling and sneering my way through life like some Method actor playing James Dean--or a terrible imitation of one. Masks are lots of fun on Halloween, but living in them can keep you from breathing. Or, at least, they can make things foggy when you exhale.

But my most gratifying moment came when I was talking with an adjunct faculty member I met when we were both adjuncts at another college. As I was talking with him, a petite, dark-haired former student whom I hadn't seen in about a year ran up to me and hugged me.

She is a talented writer who worked very hard and actively sought my advice about her work. Of course she earned an "A."

One day during the following semester, she asked whether she could "take up" some of my time. She "came out" to me and described the difficulties her orientation has caused her with her family. It's put a particular strain on her relationship with her mother because her boyfriend is a deacon in a particularly homophobic church, she said. And her aunt, who had been supportive, was dying of cancer.

That aunt is gone now. At least she's not in any more pain, my former student sighed. Not long after that, she moved away from her mother and into an apartment with two friends. And now she's on track to graduate at the end of this semester.

"I figured that if you were doing what you've been doing, I don't have any excuse not to do what I need to do," she said.

It's good to have the chance to shine your light for someone like her. I have a feeling I'm going to be tired for much of the time, at least during the first few weeks of this semester. At least I'm being energized spiritually and emotionally. That, I hope, will carry me through the coming days, and brighten the lives of those who see me.

And now I'm starting to nod off. Tomorrow's another day. After what I've experienced so far, I'm looking forward to it.

Tomorrow, The First Day

Tomorrow I will teach my very first classes in my new life.

Somehow I get the feeling I will be more conscious than anyone else of that fact. I'll probably have some students who had me in previous semesters; I doubt that they'll notice any difference in my teaching. Now, if they tell me that I'm "glowing" or "radiant," as some of my colleagues described me at last week's meeting, what will I do? Glow some more! What else can I do?

Of course, the majority of my students will not have had me before. However, some of them will come into my classes on the recommendations of their friends or even the counselors and advisors at the college. That seems to happen every semester.

Even though this will be a "first" for me, I don't think it will be nearly as dramatic a change as 8 September 2003 was. On that date, I taught for the first time "as" Justine. As I recall, I didn't have any "holdovers" from the previous semester. However, I did see many students who were in my classes during the previous year. They didn't know that Professor Nick was about to become Professor Justine. Some of them did double-takes when they saw me; others walked by me until I called their names.

I think I saw more jaws drop during those first few days "as" Justine than I saw before or have seen since. All of them--even the ones whose grades were C or lower!--wished me well and, as you can imagine, a few sought me out so they could "come out" to me.

One of the most gratifying moments of my first year of working in my new identity came toward the end of the spring semester. On my way to a class, I went to the ladies' room. On my way out, I stopped in front of the mirror to brush my hair and fix my make-up. To my left, making herself even prettier than I could ever be, was a student I had the previous year and hadn't seen since. I don't know whether she didn't recognize me, or was simply preoccupied.

"Hello Maria."

She turned and gaped. "Professor!"

"Call me Justine."

"Well...I'm happy to see you. And you look happy..."

"You can tell!"

"Yes. And that makes me happy."

"Well, thank you."

"I'll always remember the day..."

I didn't recall it until she described it: She was looking as if her spirit were even more tired than her body. If she weren't in that classroom, she would've broken down into a long, cathartic cry. And, in fact, she did, when I took her out into the hallway as the other students were completing an assignment I gave. "Look, don't worry about it," I whispered. "You just go and get some rest. Your soul needs it."

"How did you know?!"

As the saying goes, it takes one to know one. That's not what I told her, of course. But I'd felt the same way more times in my life than I could count; the only thing that kept me going through that year--the one that followed my leaving behind what was, in essence, a marriage and everything that went with it--was my determination to start living on the terms on which I needed to live.

I didn't know the details of Maria's life the day I sent her home. But she told me a few things the day I encountered her in that ladies' room. She was a single mother. The father took all of her money and anything else he could sell. "Para otras mujeres, es lo mismo," she said. However, she could simply see no light at the end of the tunnel, and she felt that she had no spiritual or even emotional resources left.

Of course, at that moment, she was underestimating herself, to say the least. That she is a woman and that she got herself into school that day--that she'd gotten herself to that day, in fact--was a testament to something she had and that I hoped I had as I embarked upon life as a woman.

And that's what I still hope--for tomorrow, the first day. And for the days that follow.

The Secret of A Luddite Tranny

I've just been outed....

No, I'm not talking about an incident at school. Or an article about my dim, dark, secret, sultry life. (I should merit such an article!)

Besides, anyone who's googled my name knows about all the things such an article would mention. Why, my father just recently googled my name and found things that shocked him in ways I could have only dreamed of when I was an adolescent!

So what closet have I been dragged out of?

It seems that a very intelligent man named Ed McGon, who's commented on two of my recent posts, has found an article that I wrote for a kinda sorta right-wing website.

Actually, I've written a few articles for Lew Rockwell's site. I haven't written for them as much during the past year as I had during the previous few, partly because I was busy with one thing and another. And, frankly, I started to feel a little out of place there: It seems that lately a lot of the articles have been about hoarding gold and guns. Now, I'm not keen on owning a gun, and don't think I'd ever acquire one unless I could see no other way to defend myself or anyone I love. I simply don't want to add to the violence that already burdens this world. As for gold...well, who wouldn't want some?

I first started reading Lew's site a few years ago because some of its writers were offering the most cogent and eloquent denunciations of the Iraq war I've seen. Some of those writers also explained something I had long intuited: that such wars are inevitable when states grow in their reach as well as in their size. I won't get into that here; after all, you're not reading this post for that. Right?

My most recent article was a slight revision of my Recovery Without the Telly post. Ed mentioned that he saw it on LR and liked it. He also said that while he agrees with my decision to give up TV, he won't give up his computer or internet connection. I feel the same way.

I thought about becoming the world's first (to my knowledge, anyway) Luddite tranny. Or Amish "girl." Having just had the operation, I'd give up all sorts of technology--like the ones that are allowing you, dear reader, to see this post!

Now I'll tell you another terrible (!) secret about me: I didn't even touch a computer until I was 41 years old. (OK, so now you know I'm over 40!) I really hoped to get through life without using one, much less a cell phone. Now, like most of you, I cannot imagine life without them.

And it's even more difficult for me to imagine my transition without these technologies. I was reminded of that today, when a fellow alumna of Trinidad called to ask me a question about dilation. I won't get into specifics here, but suffice it to say that it's not the sort of question you'd ask your neighbor, best friend or family member. I say that not because the question would be "inappropriate," but because none of those people is likely to know the answer. Even here in New York, you have a better chance of finding an albino peacock than of finding anyone among your immediate circle of acquaintances who knows anything about post-op issues.

I can't begin to tell you how much information pertaining to hormones, transitioning, surgery and related isssues I found on the internet, whether on websites or through correspondence with others--some of whom I may never meet.

Imagine how much more difficult and time-consuming those things would have been if I didn't have the Internet and a calling plan that costs about as much as one single call I made back in the day.

And, yes, all that technology made it possible for people like Ed to find out my secrets. Oh well. Why would I want to be the world's first Luddite tranny, anyway? The shock value, if there is any, doesn't interest me.

Besides, if my parents know my secrets, where are there any closets left?

My First Day Back

Today was my first day back at the college. I don't teach until Monday; today my department had staff development meetings. Plus, a committee on which I serve had its first meeting today. So, my first day at work turned out to be a long one.

I must admit to having felt some anxiety about returning. Would the ones who knew that I was undergoing surgery see me differently? Would I see them differently? And how would I answer "What did you do with your summer?" if it were asked by someone who didn't know I had the surgery?

Intellectually, I knew that the answers to my first two questions would be "no." Still, I worried. About the third: Well, I encountered it only once. And that was at the end of the day, so I was ready.

Even though I knew that the atmosphere would be informal , I wanted my "first" day at school to be flawless. I fretted over wearing something tasteful, and on the train ride to the college, I fretted even more that I'd be late.

Well, lots of people told me that I looked really good. Two female profs said my outfit was "perfect" for me: a long skirt in an Indian floral print in shades of light purple and a grayish-white hue, with a dressy tank top and cardigan in a purple that matched the shade in the print. Purple is my favorite color, and the cuts of the skirt and tops flattered my shape (no easy thing to do!), so I felt confident. And I arrived with time to spare.

Meanwhile, half of the male profs were wearing shorts and sandals. And the meeting started late because we were locked out of the room in which we were supposed to hold the meeting.

The first person I met was Janisse, who's about a decade older than I am and whose facial lines lend depth to her soft good looks. Her blue Midwestern eyes reflected concern and hopefulness as she embraced me. "How are you? I've been thinking about you."

"Thank you. I'm feeling good."

"You don't look like you've just had major surgery."

"Well, thank you. I haven't been feeling pain, just tired."

"Well, that's to be expected. Get the rest you need. Promise."

"Promise."

Others followed: Nathan, a poet/professor who looks the part and is all the more lovable for it; Ruth, a Jamaican woman who returned to college in the middle of her life and started to teach last year; Glenn, an African-American woman who returned even later in life and La Forrest, who left a career as a singer so she could write and teach. They have all lived through their share of difficulties and have no time to waste with superficiality. So their greetings, shows of concern and good wishes are genuine.

As Ruth said, "We're happy for you because we know what kind of a person you are and you deserve to be happy."

And, during the workshop, it seemed that ideas were coming to me from all directions, and I simply couldn't contain myself. Later, two of the profs in it commended me for my contributions. "You were just lit up today," one of them said.

"Yes. You were positively radiant," said the other.

Radiant: I love hearing that. And, yes, I was starting to feel that way: as if a sun were shining from within me that I couldn't obscure even if I wanted to.

So...after wondering whether I'd changed beyond recognition or not at all, I realize that I was, and am, simply who I am. And, it seemed, that was more than enough today.

Anxious About My Return

Tomorrow I go back to school. I am feeling nervous about it, although everyone says I shouldn't. It's not as if I'm going to do things there that I've never done before. At least, that's what I think.

On one hand, I really want to go back. It would be a sure sign that I'm progressing in my life, that I'm living completely as Justine. On the other hand, I don't want to leave this part of my life behind. I don't think I've ever learned so much about myself--or just simply learned--as I have during the past six weeks.

Sometimes, when I think about going back to the college--or about lots of other things--I want to be in Trinidad, at the Morning After House. It's the first place and time in my life in which I felt that I was "normal" whatever that means. In that community of transgenders, their supporters and medical professionals who helped them, I didn't feel out of place, as I have felt in so many other situations.

Well, who knows: Maybe I'll be normal--more or less--in that setting of college, of work, of colleagues. Or maybe not.

Now I just want to sleep

Plus La Meme Chose, Plus Ca Change

Tonight I got off the N train at Broadway in Astoria. I figured that I had some time to wait until the bus arrived, so I stopped in Parisi Bakery, which is right next to the entrance of the train station.

If you're ever in Astoria, forget that you're on the Atkins Diet. Any and all of Parisi's breads are to die for, from the traditional French/Italian to their double-helix (they call it "twist") loaf. Semolina, whole wheat, ciabatta: They're all great. And so are their pastries, which they began to make and sell only this year.

Anyway, I'd just walked out of Parisi, a twist loaf in my tote, when a baritone voice called, "Justine, how are you?"

"Danny?!"

It had probably been five years since I previously saw him. We'd been in a couple of transgender support groups, as I recall. He didn't seem any older, though he seemed shorter than I remembered him. During the course of our conversation, I would learn that he had been in an accident, which left him with a bad back, migraines and holes in his formerly-photographic memory.

He apologized profusely for that loss of memory. However, he seemed to remember the groups we were in, and some of the things I said and did, very well. In fact, he even reminded me that I gave him some of my "boy" clothes. Now I can scarcely recall having had, much less worn, male clothing.

The one thing he had difficulty in remembering was the time I interviewed him on the community-access cable TV program I did. Actually, he remembered my interviewing him and that it had to do with TV; he couldn't remember the details and circumstances.

I can forgive him for that! ;-) He's still as sweet and lovable--and smart--as I remember him. When I first met him, he had recently graduated from college but he looked younger; when we hugged at the end of every group session, I didn't want to let go. Yes, you could say that I was feeling friendly and maternal at the same time.

Turns out, we live only two blocks apart now. Actually, we have been neighbors for a few years; I didn't know it until tonight! Equally ironic is the fact that we both went to see "Gomorra" at the Socrates Sculpture Park film festival last Wednesday and didn't meet each other.

So...We tried catching up on five years during a five-minute bus ride. Last fall, he said, he took a trip to Paris and Rome--his first time in Europe--and "loved it." I can well understand, having lived in Paris and having returned eight times and having been to Rome three times.

He asked whether I'd taken any trips lately. "Colorado," I said.

"Oh, it must have been great!"

"It was."

"It's so beautiful. What did you do."

By this time, he couldn't see anything but my smile, which he later described as "radiant."

"I had my surgery."

His eyes lit up. "You know, when I saw you, I just knew. It must have been wonderful."

"It was." I talked about Marci, the hospital, the Morning After House and some of the people I met there. "You couldn't ask for a better experience than what I had."

"So you're done?"

I recalled that another female-to-male I knew once quipped "When you're becoming a boy, your work is never done." When I last saw Danny, he was about to have the surgery on his chest; he's had other surgeries since then and plans to have what he hopes to be his final surgery soon.

"Yes, the surgery is done. Marci does it all in one procedure, right down to the clitoriplasty. "

His eyes widened. I'm not sure that there were one-step procedures the last time we saw each other. To say the least, I felt very fortunate.

The funny thing is that if anyone had seen us five years ago and were to see us now, he or she probably wouldn't see much difference, at first glance. And Danny and I were talking to each other with the same ease and empathy we had back then. Yet, even before I mentioned my surgery, Danny said that he could sense, the moment he saw me, that "something was different." And I would've said the same about him.

The difference, I now realize, is that each of us feels more confident that our bodies--however similar they are to what they were before--are truly ours, that they reflect in some fundamental way the way we see ourselves and want to be seen by others. Even though he's lost some of his strength as a result of the accident, and I've simply gotten older, I realize now that each of us has been renewed and strengthened by the spiritually healing and nurturing relationships we have developed between our bodies and our selves.

Perhaps we should invert Hugo's Plus ca change, plus la meme chose. We are the same--we are ourselves, that is how we've changed. And how we recognized each other.

Seven Years: No Itch, Only Change

Seven years ago today I took my first steps toward the life I have now.

It was a day very much like this one: hot, almost unbearably so. But that day seemed even hotter, mainly becuase I was moving from the apartment in which Tammy and I lived to one across the street from the one in which I now live.

That day, I arrived on this block knowing no-one. I had no job. All I knew was that somehow or another, I just had to arrive in the sort of emotional and spiritual place I now inhabit, or some place like it. I had no idea when I'd get here; I had only a vague idea, really, of how and which way(s) I'd go.

About the only things I knew that day were that my life with Tammy was done, my life as a man wouldn't and couldn't last much longer and that I could only move forward from where I was at that moment. And, oh, yeah, I had to unpack a bunch of boxes and make my new place habitable, at least for me.

If the year that preceded the move was the most desultory of my life, the year that followed was the most schizophrenic. Within a week of moving, I had work--as Nick. Soon after that, I involved myself with advocacy and various social events--as Justine. And I was careful not to be seen by my new neighbors in the identity I would, some months later, reveal to them: as the person I am, as Justine.

So, it seemed, I was always coming home very late at night--and, during the ensuing winter, through streets filled with snow and empty of people.

I suppose that if someone asked me how soon I expected to have the life I had now, I might have said "seven to ten years," even if that seemed like an eternity. Now I am surprised at how quickly that time has gone by. I am even more surprised at what I have experienced and what I have learned since then. And I am most astonished of all over the joy it--yes, all of it--has brought me.

I am not surprised that my mother could accept me even when she couldn't understand, much less approve of, what I was doing. Since those days, she has come to understand what I've done and why I've done it. As to whether she approves: I'm not sure that she does, or ever will. But, I've learned, that's not so consequential: Love matters more than approval, or anything else, really. I'm still learning to live by that lesson.

Also not surprising was Bruce: When I first told him, over the phone, what I was doing, he had his doubts. But, as he said much later, his curiosity won out over his skepticism, and he made a point of having dinners and lunches with me as I was starting my new life.

My most pleasant surprises have been with Dad and Millie. I really had no idea of what to expect from my father. On one hand, he wanted so much for me to go to the Air Force Academy, or one of the other Federal academies, and pursue a career in the military. And we often fought about how the directions my life took differed from the path he wanted me to follow. On the other, he was helpful to me when I left Tammy and at other times in my life. I guess he's like a lot of men: He doesn't know how to extend himself emotionally, but he tries to take care of, or fix, situations that arise.

There have been difficult moments--just last week, for example--and I think there will be others. But I can honestly say that he's been not just tolerant, but accepting. I even feel that he's tried to show some more affection than he has previously shown; I think he understands that, whatever else may be, he has in me a daughter, or at any rate a child, who loves him.

And Millie: I never in a million years expected to have a friend like her. Although she greeted me warmly the day I moved in--which I appreciated--I didn't imagine we'd become such good friends. When I first met her, I thought our common ground began and ended with our love of cats. But I would soon learn that she had more in common with other people I've loved, and that we shared more of the same loves and values, than I ever imagined. Most important of all, I never knew that I could just, basically, come out of nowhere into someone's life, and that someone would show me such kindness.

Then, of course, there are other people I've met, and things I've learned about myself, that I couldn't have imagined seven years ago.

Probably the most important things I've learned are that kindness--to myself and others--is not just a nice trait to exhibit; it's a survival skill. In all those years when I was skinnier than one of the rails on my bike seat and I was stronger--physically, anyway--than the iron I was pumping, I was punishing and pummeling myself and my body into submission. I wasn't a happy camper; people didn't stay very long in my camp. And who could blame them?

If some people want to see my kindness (such as it is) as weakness or naievete, so be it. It's keeping me alive. If they want to see in me someone who shouldn't have undergone my transition (because I don't fit their stereotypes of transgender people, which they use to rationalize their prejudices against us), well, it's not my job to argue them out of it. After all, winning argument isn't the same thing as being right or aligned with the truth; such victories will no more keeping one's game face on will ensure victory.

Every living being has no choice but to grow or die. (That much I remember from the Biology classes I took more years ago than I'll admit.) Growth comes about only through change. And, really, the only person, place or thing any living being can change is him or her self. Not any old change will do, however: It has to be brought about by love. And whom must we love first?

Maybe you've heard all of this before. If you have, I apologize, not for repeating it, but for being a slow learner. Then again, I am the kind of learner I am. All I can do is nurture it. And to nurture the woman I've always been. Those, for me, have been the lessons of the past seven years. Back then, I couldn't have imagined them.

Cut Out The Chase

If you are a student or a former instructor of mine, please skip the next two sentences.

I am reading a book I was supposed to have read in a course I took. Actually, I never finished the course, and there are other things I was supposed to have read but didn't.

So why am I reading Frank Norris' The Octopus now? Well, it's there--or here, as in my place. And, well, the cover of the book is so off-putting that I have to check out what's inside.

Imagine Brokeback Mountain without even the slightest gesture that can be construed as acknowledging its characters' homoeroticism. Or almost anything Hemingway ever wrote, if his male characters were just a little bit more interesting and his female characters even more peripheral. Or Thomas Wolfe, if his lyricism were only slightly less gratuitous and his characterisations were just a little bit deeper. Or John Steinbeck, if he focused on the maleness of his male characters rather than the fact that they were farmers, canners or whatever.

It is indeed a strange book. Actually, it's totally conventional for its time in the way the Norris uses language and tells the story. It makes me think of what William Blake said about John Milton, the poet who wrote Paradise Lost: that he was of the devil's party and didn't know it. Likewise, Norris's book is so obsessive in the way it portrays male characters that it would make my boyfriend (if I had one) jealous. But somehow, I get the feeling that Norris may very well have been clueless about the homoerotic undertones of the relationships--or, more precisely, the way he portrayed those relationships--in his book.

Now, since I'm not in the class for which I was supposed to read the book, I'll stop talking about what I would have been discussing in that class. Instead, I'm going to discuss something I noticed about myself, or, at any rate, the way my perceptions are changing, in the course of reading this book.

One of the many characters is Dyke (!), a former railroad engineer who was fired for union activity. He becomes a farmer, but his former employers try to take land away from him, and other farmers and ranchers, through unscrupulous manipulations of the law. Eventually, Dyke stages a hold-up on a train and hides in the mountains until agents catch up with him. Now I'm reading about the chase: Because of the way the story has been going, you know that Dyke is going to be captured.

If Paradise Lost is compelling in large part because Satan is portrayed in greater depth, and therefore more interestingly, than God or even Adam or Eve in the poem, chase scenes are almost always only as captivating (pun intended) as the character who's being chased. If the one being pursued is completely evil and does not merit, even in the slightest way, sympthy, then there's no reason for the chase.

Of course, the best example of what I am talking about is in Les Miserables, in which Jean Valjean is pursued by Inspector Javert. Even the most resolutely conservative capitalist feels at least some sympathy for Valjean as he winds his way through the Paris sewers in his attempt to evade Javert. How could anybody actually want Javert to capture Valjean?

However, I don't find myself rooting for Dyke in quite the same way, although he is, in essence, no more a criminal at heart than Valjean is. It's not that my politics have so radically changed or that my heart has hardened. Rather, I think it has to do with the chase scene itself.

It's rendered in great detail, and I could feel an almost visceral sense of the movement. But even if the chase itself were rendered better--I don't think it could have been, at least not by much--I wouldn't have been so interested in it as I have been in others.

I think my lack of engagement with that scene had to do with something that Regina said: I'm not running away anymore. I used to get thrills out of chases in movies, TV programs and in other media. I identified with whoever was running from; to me, they were always victims of whatever was chasing them. And in so identifying with the ones who were chased, I "borrowed" their anger, frustration and fear.

But now I have no need to borrow other people's guilt and anger and sorrow...or anything else. So the chase scenes, perhaps, won't mean so much to me as they once did.

That's a scarifice I'm happy to make.

Maxi-pads, Chocolate and Reaffirming Femininity

My big outing of the day: to the Post Office, then to Rite Aid, where I bought two packages of Kotex maxi-pads, two bars of Lindt 70% Extra Dark (one of the world's best legal non-prescription drugs!) and a package of Ferrero Rocher chocolates that were on sale.

Cheryl, the assistant manager at Rite Aid, hadn't seen me in some time, and commented on it. She first met me when I moved into the neighborhood, just before I began my year of going to work and family engagements as Nick while going shopping, to movies and to various LGBT-related events as Justine. So she has seen the transition, but I hadn't talked to her about my surgery. And she noticed the two packages of maxi-pads.

"Two of a girl's basic needs," she dryly remarked.

I couldn't suppress a grin, which I couldn't keep from blossoming into a smile.

"Exactly what I need now," I said.

She looked at me. One of those silences that lasts a nanosecond but seems to engulf all of time hung in, but did not fill, the space between us.

"I've just had my operation."

A silence that seemed even longer than the previous one filled the air as she looked directly into my eyes for the first time. "You're looking well. You're looking happy."

"I feel as if a huge weight has been taken off my shoulders. I feel more complete now."

"I'm glad for you. I hope everything continues to go well." Then she rushed toward the back of the store, where a young woman was stocking the shelves in the "baby needs" aisle.

Given that she was on the job, I'm surprised that we talked for as long as we did. Perhaps we'll talk about this some more. Perhaps not. Maybe she won't want to, or we won't need to.

It's not as if Cheryl is a close friend. But she's one of those people who's always been friendly and helpful to me. Who knows....Maybe the next time I go to that Rite Aid, she'll tell me to buy different pads. Or she'll tell me that she likes dark chocolate or wonder how in the world I eat them.

I've long suspected that all women love chocolate, and if women can be classified in any way, it's according to their tastes in chocolate: one who likes dark is definitely different from someone who prefers milk chocolate, who is yet another kind of woman from one who goes for white. Then, of course, we can further categorize women by whether they like truffles, caramel fillings, cream fillings, liqueurs, nuts, raisins or other additions--or whether they prefer their chocolate "straight."

Somehow I suspect Cheryl likes milk chocolate with caramel. Nothing wrong with that: I just happen to prefer mine dark and straight, or a dark truffle. I must admit that for the life of me, I don't understand how anyone eats white chocolate straight-up. I can understand using it as a garnish or flavoring, or swirling or layering it with dark chocolate. But to eat chunks of it...no.

Later in the afternoon, I talked to Regina for the first time in a while. She moved from the college where I teach now to the one in which I taught before I came to my current college. It's not so far away from me, but because our schedules have been so different, we haven't seen each other in a while. We made a lunch date for next Friday. Still, I was trying to talk to her for as long as I could: It's always such a pleasure for me.

Near the end of our conversation, she said something that still moves me, even though she's said it before: "You're an inspiration for me."

If her phone were photosensitive, it would've been pink from my blushing. "Really? Well, I'm happy for that."

"You really are. You reaffirm femininity. You show people how good it is to be feminine."

The funny thing is that I never set out to be "feminine." I just happen to be that way, or at least express myself that way. But, if she or any other woman--or man, for that matter--feels that I reaffirm what is best about being who one is, then I'm happy.

Just remember that I need maxi-pads and love chocolate, just as you do! ;-)

Walks, Rides and Baths for a Woman

Today I took my longest walk so far: a bit more than an hour. I hadn't planned on it; I just sauntered along Vernon Boulevard, past Rainey Park (which is around the corner from my apartment), the Costco store, Socrates Sculpture Park and a patch of sand where lots of boys and girls of all ages climb the wooden fence after dark.

I couldn't climb that fence now even if I wanted to. That won't be possible for another two and a half months, or thereabouts. Dr. Bowers didn't say anything about climbing fences. But I'm guessing that the timetable she gave me for cycling--three months after my surgery--would apply to climbing fences. Not that I plan on doing anything like that.

Just past that "beach," I turned right, away from the East River and onto street where an empty lot occupied the corner. A wooden fence surrounded it, and "For Sale" signs hung from each side of it. It's still a strange concept, really, that one can buy or sell a piece of the earth. Native Americans apparently didn't believe that was possible, which may be the reason why, according to legend, they let go of Manhattan for the equivalent of $24. These days, you can hardly get dinner for that amount of money.

Just past the empty lot, a nice residential street continued for a few blocks. That street is lined with some very well-kept Colonial and neo-Colonial wooden frame houses. Apparently, there was a hill there once: Most of the houses seemed to sit on mounds a few feet above the street level.

The humidity had dissipated a bit, and the sun put in an appearance. And a soft breeze crept off the river and brushed against my bare legs and arms. On days like this, it seems like every kid, dog and cat wants to play with me and even the most jaded adults have a smile.

That's the reason I kept on walking. My legs had no problem carrying and moving me, just as my arms are strong enough to pick up a few things I probably shouldn't have picked up. But, whenever I extend myself, as I did today, I feel it in my groin area. Areas that swelled as they normally would after surgery swelled a bit more; I can feel sore if not in pain. And I'm not tired, but I'm sure that I will be fairly soon. That will be time for Daily Dilation Number 3 and the Daily Recommended warm bath with Epsom salt.

Funny...Until this week, I hadn't taken a bath since I was about eight years old or so. The first time I took a shower, it felt so grown-up, and I never wanted to take a bath again. Even after I lost my angry desire to distance myself from childhood (and, later, adolescence and early adulthood), I continued to take showers out of habit and convenience. With the extra time and steps I now take in preparing myself to go to work (in fixing my hair, putting on makeup, simply getting dressed), I simply could not imagine taking even more time out of my day to take a bath.

But for the past three nights, I took one of those recommended baths immediately before I went to bed. Now, all of you who take baths know how relaxing that is. It was nonetheless a revelation to me. If I had known just how a semi-immersion in warm water with a little epsom salt would feel, I would have taken one after every one of those bike long, hard bike rides--especially the ones in which I climbed or pedalled into the wind--back when I was riding practically everywhere I went.

Or maybe not, now that I think of it. Some people who saw my surfboard-with-shoulders body in those days might say that I was "taking better care" of myself than I do now. I did indeed exert myself physically: I probably had months in which I pedalled more miles and spent more time working out than I have so far this year. I was skinnier; I had more endurance.

Actually, I had more stubborness, which is a way of saying "denial." I wasn't really taking care of my body: I was pushing it, sometimes past its limits. In one sense, it wasn't so different from what I did back when I was drinking about a third of my take-home pay (which was good in those days) and did a few other substances, well, because they were there.

Of course, if you're going to batter your body, you're better off doing it with exercise than with alcohol or other drugs. In my infrequent visits to doctors, they would re-take my blood pressure reading just to be sure they got it right: Doctors and nurses actually told me they'd never seen such a low reading in a person my age. And almost every other reading they took of me was textbook-perfect.

Even my testosterone level was exactly where it should have been. Of course, I didn't know that until I decided to make my transition away from that life. As part of the screening I had to undergo before I started to take hormones, I had to submit several blood samples. When the doctor read the results, I was relieved to learn that my youthful excesses hadn't damaged my liver or kidneys, and was mildly surprised about my testosterone level. However, I was shocked--and, deep down, elated--to learn that my estrogen level was "off the charts" for a "normal" male.

Medical researchers haven't yet gone on record as saying that there's a cause-and-effect relationship between estrogen levels and the feelings I had. But more than a few admit that lots of transgender people have elevated levels of the "other " hormone.

But I digress. (Well, isn't that what I was doing during my walk today?) Point is, the feats of endurance that used to make me feel so superior to those who weren't doing them weren't really making me healthy, at least in a way. I was pounding my body into submission, but I wasn't really taking care of it--or, more important, myself.

No matter what I did, I never felt any real satisfaction. On those rare occasions when I looked in a mirror, I saw a male body that had to be conquered and beaten into submission. Now, when I look in the mirror, I see--amongst my many imperfections--someone to be loved, respected and taken care of, if not coddled. If I could feel the urge to protect and nurture someone whose vulnerabilities I have seen, why should I not feel the same way when I see my own vulnerability and my own need to be loved?

And, at the risk of seeming trite, I will repeat this truism: None of us can love anyone else if we don't love ourselves.

When I get back on the bike, I'd like to get back into good shape. I doubt that I'll be able to ride the way I did ten years ago. But at least I think it will be better for my overall health, as I suspect today's walk was.

And I won't regard the baths as self-indulgent or a waste of time. Instead, they'll be a form of spiritual nourishment. After all, for a bath to have its effect, you have to relax--which, for me, means not thinking about the things I could or should be doing with that time I spend in the water.

I think these walks are going to get better. So will the bike riding. After all, I'll be walking and riding as the woman I am, not as the man I tried to be.

Now, if I start to do those walks or rides--or, worse yet, take baths--in heels, well, that might not be so healthy. But it could be fun--at least to think about-- once in a while! ;-)

For now, it's bath time.

Ecstasy to Laundry

After ecstasy, the laundry...

The Zen master who uttered that wasn't referring to a drug that was popular in the club scene during the '80's.

That teacher--I forget who it was (Bruce would probably know)--was saying, in essence, that after a "peak" experience, we have to return to the mundane. I don't think that master was making a value judgment, he/she was simply describing life as it is.

Today I did some laundry, in the most literal sense. I never knew I could make simply so many clothes dirty simply by sitting or lying around! Actually, my bedsheets needed washing, and I'd wanted to wash some underthings and towels on which I'd spilled or dripped ointments and such.

Just about any one of us who undergoes gender reassignment surgery envisions the life we hope to have after it. I would suspect that many of us, in our thinking, leap directly from the surgery to our post-surgery lives. We all know that we have to spend time recovering from the surgery. But I wonder how many actually think about that time.

I know I didn't, at least not much. I thought about my life as a woman: one that would include relationships that would continue--some changed, others not--and new bonds that would form. I also had a notion that someone who has been a friend or ally would be no longer. And I envisioned a life of writing, teaching and possibly taking on some new endeavor. Also, I would have some sort of blissful love with one very special person.

Well...I didn't think about this little intermediate step. Then again, who ever thinks of sitting down, sleeping when she hadn't planned on doing so or simply being more or less housebound, however temporarily, as part of the life she envisioned?

Oh well. I know that I need this time of rest to heal from my surgery--and so much that preceded it. But it's so hard to fight back my reflexes: I pick up things I probably shouldn't, and I'm probably bending more than I should. I hope I don't do any damage. Today I called Marci; Janet, who works in her office, said that the swelling I feel is normal, but that I probably should get more rest (!) during the next couple of days.

I know that none of my family, friends or colleagues expect me to do anything right now. Millie came in and helped me with a couple of household tasks. She admonished me to rest: She knows me.

And that is what I am going to do--after I take a doctor-mandated warm bath.

Inside Out

I can't believe that two weeks have passed since my surgery!

Tomorrow night, I will have been home for a week. Charlie and Max are still treating me as if I'd just walked in the door: They can't keep themselves off, much less away from, me. Actually, I'm happy about that. Their cuddling and purring are even more relaxing than most massages.

Mom says they're afraid I'm going to leave again. Even though I don't think I'm going to venture much more than a few blocks from my apartment for a while--at least until my appointment with my gynecologist next week--I suspect she's right.

I can't help but to wonder whether they know what I've done. I can't help but to think that they know that I've changed in some way. Perhaps they're afraid that I'll change into something they can't recognize. Well, they shouldn't fear: I'm going to change into my nightgown. They've seen that before.

Seriously...I know that I am going to experience further changes. What those changes are, I don't know. All I know is that I really can't do anything but change, mainly because I am learning about myself in ways I never imagined.

More specifically, I am seeing my body in ways I never imagined I could. I first became aware of that last week, during my session with Nurse Phyllis.

She removed my catheter tube. Then she pulled the packing material out of my vagina. It seemed that there was no end to it: The blood-tinged white strand streamed out of me like one of those endless strands of spaghetti the cartoon characters would suck until there was nothing left in the plate.

It was the first time I ever saw something pulled from inside my body. That, I realize now, is the reason I insisted on watching. And, of course, it allowed me my first unobstructed view of my new female organs.

Those organs had once been my male organs. Dr. Bowers essentially turned them inside-out.

No one ever accused me of being unduly fixated on my cock. Truth was, it was the last thing in the world I wanted to think about. Of course, that meant that at times, all I could do was to think about it--or, more specifically, the fact that it was there.

Then Marci Bowers brought my womanhood from within. In that sense, my operation was the culminating event that I expected it to be: For the past few years, I have been bringing my essential female self--Justine--into the world, from within me.

That was my real transition. The hormones may have helped, but they didn't turn a masculine visage into a feminine (after a certain fashion, anyway) face. My jawline and other facial structures may have indeed softened and become less angular, but the real reason why I see Justine's face rather than Nick's in the mirror--and, I believe, why people who've seen old photos of me can't believe that I am the person in those photos--is that I am seeing myself from within me.

What I see now has always been within me. I have lately been fortunate enough--and am now tired enough!--to have seen it all coming from within me.

Walking In, Walking With

Today was another sunny, warm, and dry day. I imagine I would have encountered daytime weather like this in Trinidad had I gone a few weeks earlier. The nights would have been much cooler, though: The between day and night is much greater than it is here.

I'm still walking slowly, as it is still very early in my healing process. And I'm staying within a few-block radius of my apartment, in deference to two aspects of my current condition: my decreased strength and my seemingly-reduced bladder capacity. I know that my stamina will return, eventually. I hope my bladder capacity--such as it was--does, too. I'm not hoping for what I had as a male, but I at least hope it will be what it was while I was taking hormones.

Other than my physical fatigue, I really have no complaints. This may be one of the few times in my life in which no one will expect me to rationalize the fact that I'm not doing more than I am doing! Really, all I have to do during the next five weeks is to recover.

If you asked most people, "What is Justine recovering from?," most of them would say, "The surgery, of course!" (Some might end the sentence with a ruder expression than "of course," but you get the idea.) However, I get the feeling that I am also healing from things that are much older and deeper than the scars from my surgery.

A couple of the trans people I met in Trinidad have suffered cruelties of fate and human caprice that I cannot even imagine. My story cannot compare to theirs. However, I have experienced all sorts of meanness at the hands of people who hated me for, well, simply being. Some thought I was a guy who had to "butch up" a bit more; others didn't want me to because, as I was, I served as their punching bag. And I'm not talking only in a physical sense: Some of those people could feel superior to me because, well, they weren't me.

But even worse than anything anyone did to me were the things I did to myself, all out of self-loathing. That includes, of course, the alcohol and drug abuse of my youth.

It's interesting, at least to me, that this recovery from my surgery coincides, almost to the day, with the very first days of my recovery from alcohol and drug abuse. On 14 June 1986, I spent my first day since I-couldn't-remember-when without drugs and alcohol. I very quickly realized that I wasn't recovering only from what those substances did to my mind and spirit; I was also healing--or, I should say, I was also beginning my process of healing from rapes, abusive relationships and all sorts of other things.

In that sense, this time reminds me of those early days of my sobriety. The recovery from my surgery is the bird-dropping on the tip of the iceberg of my healing. Now I am not only in recovery, I am recovering--who and what I am. I am only beginning to rescue the "beautiful" person Marilynne and others say I am from inside the wall--one that corrodes, from within, the very things it protects from outside intruders--that I constructed, day by day, brick by brick, around what turned out to be a rather flimsy bastion (Is that an oxymoron?) of maleness.

That is the reason why a simple walk to the park, as I took today, fills me with the sort of confidence and light that conquering mountains never could give me. Probably 90% of the women out there were easier on the eyes than I was: My hair was a mess, I wasn't wearing any makeup, except for lipstick, and I was wearing a rather loose sundress with a rip on the side. (So that's what all those guys were looking at? ;-) ) But I wasn't thinking about how I looked: I stepped, I moved with a confidence about who I am. I knew exactly who I am and what I'd become--female and woman--and no one, not any person (not that any tried) or any city, state or country could deny me that.

Fortunately, the ones who've tried weren't anywhere near me today. But even if they find their way back to my life, they no longer have (if they ever did) any power over me. I may be weak and flabby, but I have never felt the strength of who I am as much as I did on that two-block walk to the park today.

Sleeping With Experience, Waking To Lessons

I seem to have been alternating between sleep and hyperactivity since I got home from my surgery. As far as I can tell, this is normal: I certainly need the rest, but I'm not very good at sitting still. Some of the longest hours of my life were the ones during which I was lying in that hospital bed, waiting to get out for my first walk as a woman. That night, I got one of the longest and deepest sleeps I've ever had.

That cycle of sleep and restlessness is repeating itself now that I'm home. Perhaps this is the way of being born, if not of giving birth. No one is more curious than a newborn; no one has as much to teach, and the need to teach it, as the one who has brought that newborn into the world. Of course, the pedagogical method is not Socratic; rather, it pure intuition for both teacher and pupil. And I just happen to be both.

Although none of this surprises me, it's not quite what I expected. Somehow I expected to nourish myself with the legacy (or carcass, depending on your point of view) of someone I was "leaving behind." Perhaps, in some sense, I am abandoning or, better yet, transcending the person I once was. But now I feel as if I, the birth-giver, has been given the gifts and burdens of that person's experience, and that as I impart it, I am becoming the one to whom I impart it.

If that sounds mystical and you don't like mysticism (Frankly, I'm not much of a fan of it.), well, I'm sorry I can't do any better right now. However, if this sounds like a beautiful experience, I can assure you that it is, at least for me, even more beautiful than I've described.

Late today, I walked to the bodega and bought a pint of La Salle Dulce de Leche ice cream. (It's great with sliced or diced pears and fresh-ground nutmeg.) As I walked home, in the direction of the East River, the sun was beginning to set. The day had been warm but not humid (very unusual for New York at this time of year), and a breeze wafted off the river and rippled against my bare shoulders and my sun-dress.

I would have called what I was feeling "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," with apologies to Milan Kundera, except that it was anything but unbearable. Not to say that it was easy: I was learning, at that moment, my own spiritual weight and how to navigate with it. However, I was not learning through some dialectical, question-and-answer process. Instead, I felt more as if it were some sort of metamorphosis: The one who had been alien in a male body was becoming one who is beginning her life in the world of women. Those days of alienation are past; the days of living "as" a woman--days only recently passing-- were now turning into the early days of the life of which I'd long dreamed.

This is only the beginning of that life. For now, my main concern is recovering. From the surgery, yes, and I'm doing that more quickly than I'd expected. But the real recovery, I feel, has to do with so many of the things I experienced before the surgery--in fact, before I even admitted to myself that this is what I wanted.

Those experiences include rapes, betrayals, beatings (ones that I've committed as well as have been subjected to) and various other sorts of hurt. There are the two former friends who, perhaps, I will no longer think of as "former"--or, as some have suggested, "friends that never were." Rather, they are people who are not part of my life now, and probably never will be. Even if they were to try to make amends to me, I don't think it would be possible: I am as different from the woman they betrayed as she is from the "man" they befriended. They may be different, too, from the people who were in my life, which would make the questions of "forgiveness" and "renewing the friendship" even more irrelevant.

Simply put, they are not part of my life now. Only the lessons I have learned from my experiences with them remain. And, I am learning, lessons are far more useful than memories for moving forward in one's life. I'm not losing the experiences that begat those lessons. Instead, I am finally getting the opportunity to live by those lessons, rather than to continue in the prison of the memories--which are so unreliable--of my experiences. And there are so many new experiences to come.

I want to move ahead and discover them. But I need some rest now.

Rest and Encouragement for the Journey

I've been drifting in and out of consciousness today. I don't think any travel date has left me as tired on the following day as yesterday left me today.

It's not that it was one of those travel days from hell. To the contrary: The drive from Trinidad to Colorado Springs went without delay, and seemed even quicker than it was because I was riding and talking with Robin, who works in Dr. Bowers' office. Each of my flights landed ahead of schedule, and I opened the door to my apartment about an hour earlier than I anticipated.

Before she turned on to the highway, she dropped off someone who's having her surgery today.

I've forgotten her name, but I recall that she's from West Virginia and has beautiful light green eyes. She admitted to feeling very anxious about the surgery and, in the little time I saw her, I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. I really felt no pain, only some irritation and soreness as well as fatigue. I reached my left hand back to her right and clasped it. "I'm feeling really good," I exclaimed. "And you're going to be in the same hands that took care of me."

That seemed to calm her, for a moment. "What you're going through now is really worse than the surgery itself," I said. "Preparation is the worst. But soon it'll be over."

Tomorrow I'll call Robin to see how that woman is doing. What I won't mention, though, is that I'd like a name to remember along with those eyes!

OK...So how many people did I fall in love with in Trinidad? Hmm....Danny, the trans man who stayed at the Morning After House. The woman I just mentioned. Dave, the anaesthesiologist. (He insisted that I call him by his first name.) And, of course, Marci. So that's what? --four people in eleven days. Two males, two females. I guess that's proof I'm bisexual, whatever that means.

Marci, Danny and Dave are all accounted for. The woman with the green eyes, I don't know. She was the first person in ten days to see me when I was looking more-or-less presentable: no catheter bags or other medical torture devices. Even with all those appendages and under the influence of anaesthesia and other medications, I looked good, according to people who saw me. Either they should be canonized or they should be used to define the word "mendacious." Either way, I love them!

I, on the other hand, tell only the truth, especially when I'm telling people they're wonderful, beautiful, nice or smart. Or that everything's going to be all right. I told Joyce, my roommate during my last two days at the hospital, all of those things. And she looked fine when I saw her as I was leaving. Because she underwent her surgery two days after I experienced mine, I could advise her on what to expect. And when she told me about her headaches, fatigue and other minor maladies, I assured her that I'd had exactly the same expereiences.

"That's what's so good about staying at the Morning After House," my mother explained. "You all give each other support."

I was thinking the same thing. What's that about great minds?

I can't recall any other experience that made me happier to be, and gave me more pride in, being an educator. That brief conversation I had with the green-eyed woman on the eve of her surgery was, really, not so different from any number of conversations I've had with various students. Sometimes students are more ready to accomplish something than they realize they are; all I can (or need to) do is to convey my belief that they can do whatever it is they need to do. That belief is founded on the fact that they really, deep down, want to achieve their goal or simply want or need to do whatever is to be done at that moment.

That woman with the green eyes has, I'm sure, been thinking about the surgery for a long time. She wants it: She knows that the time has come for her to see with the light in her own eyes rather than the images of fears and other peoples' expectations.

Then again, if she backed out of the surgery, or simply decided not to do it today--neither of which I expect--I'm sure she knows why. There's nothing wrong with that. After all, she's still on the journey. Maybe she needs some rest.

As I do now. Everything's gone well, and everything is going to be OK. Sometimes you just get tired--especially when you're moving from one stage of your journey to the next, and it involves giving birth to your self.

Beginning in Trinidad

At the Morning After House, where I have been staying since my release from Mount San Rafael Hospital, manager Carol Cometto keeps a guestbook. Here is my entry in it:

I was born in Georgia.

I have lived most of my life in New York.

But I have come to Trinidad, to begin.

Even though I had been living as a woman for nearly six years before coming here, I feel that my life as the person I am is starting just now.

Of course, it is not the surgery itself that changes one's life. However, it is one of our rites of passage from what we were expected to be to what our souls yearn to be. And Marci Bowers is exactly the right person to "deliver" me through that passage.

Not only is she an extremely skilled surgeon and fine doctor; she has the empathy and compassion to understand what we feel and need, and the vision, artistry and commitment to make it real.

Another person who has that passion, commitment and empathy is Carol Cometto. The Morning After House--her "baby"--is a dynamic testament to those qualities.

It hasn't been around for very long, so it has its kinks. But Carol got the most important part right: You walk in and you feel loved, not just "the love."

When I came in last week, I said to Carol--only half-jokingly--"You really don't expect me to leave, do you? She placed me in the "Sabrina" room. It's beautiful, and I could spend days, months, years basking in the light of it.

But it's not just the wood tones or the sunlight and views of Trinidad mountain in the window that make the place so inviting. It, like no other room I've ever been in, was crafted by someone who knows exactly what you want and need to feel the day before and the day after one of the most important events in your life.

Most important of all, what Carol has done is to make a space in which a real community is possible.

I am fortunate in that when I return to New York, I will be seeing a doctor and gynecologist who treat other transgender women. I also have friends and colleagues who have stood by and behind me. However, even in New York, I don't where else it's possible to find a place in which everyone understands just how you feel. It's like having your own native language and finally meeting the people who speak it in the land in which it is spoken.

While my stay at the Morning After House, like those of most guests, is short-lived (two days before and four days after my stay in the hospital), I feel that it will be a kind of "moveable feast" that I will always take with me, and which will always nourish me.

I will have, not only the house and Marci and Carol; I will also have Marilynne, who so steadfastly supported her daughter in her surgery; Danny, with his humor and overall enjoyable presence; Becky, whose spouse Joyce was my roommate for my last two days at Mount San Rafael Hospital. And of course, the nurses--especially Martha Martinez--in the hospital.

Because of them, I am beginning in Trinidad.

Nurse Phyllis

Imagine that the magician has a woman on the table and, instead of sawing her in half, he pulls endless silk scarves out of some orifice of her body.

That's about what I experienced today. Not that it was a bad thing: It means that I am one step closer to living as an independent woman. And the person who provided the expereince could not have done it any better.

Today I had an appointment at Doctor Bowers' office with "Nurse Phyllis." She has the broad face and shoulders of some earth goddess, and the warmth and light of the sun coursing through her eyes. If you are ever going to have your insides pulled out, she's the person whom you want to do it.

What I described in that last sentence isn't as terrible as it sounds. You see, today she removed my catheter tube, which means that I'm free to pee and make a mess of a bathroom all on my own. Actually, I was a good girl in the bathroom today: I really didn't have to clean anything up after myself.

You'll never know what a privilege it is to pee without having a tube and bag attached to you, and having to empty that bag (or having to wait for someone empty it for you, as you do when you're in a hospital bed) until you have one of those tubes pulled out of you. And you'll also never realize how nice it is to sit down without having to angle your crotch or to sit on one of those inflatable donuts until you have a few yards of packing material pulled out of you, and that area feels more or less normal, if not the same as it was before it was packed. Of course, the fact that it's not the same is the whole point of the operation.

Anyway, Nurse Phyllis made the process painless. You relax, not only because she tells you to, but because she knows that, deep down, that's what you really want.

Then, she taught me what "graduates" of "The Trinidad Experience" refer to as "Vagina Boot Camp" or "Vagina 101." That mini-course included, as you might imagine, dialation as well as other care and feeding of my new organ. In other words, she teaches people like me to treat our vaginas in ways that lots of natural-born women never do. She recommends wearing cotton panties and not wearing materials that don't breathe. Now I'm really happy that I stopped wearing those stretchy shorts for cycling this year.

I'm so glad I had that session with Nurse Phyllis. She has such empathy for anyone who's put her feet in those stirrups and lay prone with her legs spread apart. That's one time you want to absolutely trust whoever is standing over you. And I knew, from the moment that I met her, that I could.

That's really what's made this whole experience of getting my GRS/SRS surgery so comfortable, at least relatively speaking: I could trust everyone who stood over me as I was vulnerable. That, of course, starts with Dr. Bowers: She is the very embodiment of that quality, and she finds people to work with her whose most essential quality is just that.

That need to trust is, from what I can see so far, one of the things that makes a woman's in getting health care different from a man's. I never had to be so vulnerable, so in the hands of those providing the care, as I have been during this experience. That is not to say that I've had to be passive; in fact, when you have to make yourself prone, that's exactly when you need to take charge of yourself. And that means, at least in part, finding the ones whom you can trust when you are lying down and, for the time being, helpless.

Now I am confident that I have gained at least one more of the skills I will need for the rest of my life. Thank you, Nurse Phyllis.