Work

Last Wednesday, I stayed up all night and was all but useless after my morning classes on Thursday.

So what am I doing tonight? Pulling another all-nighter, of course. And I have the same classes tomorrow morning that I have on Thursdays.

So why, you ask, am I writing this now, when (at least in the eyes of people more sensible than me) I should be doing my work or sleeping?

Well...To paraphrase the old neighborhood, "Ya do what ya need ta do." That's not quite the same as what ya gotta do, which includes most of what we think of as our work, as well as other external obligations.

Writing is one of those things I need to do, if only for myself. I guess, in that sense, it's like the gender transformation I'm undergoing.

There's no practical reason why I should be taking that journey--or writing this journal/blog entry. That is, if you define "practical" as what adds to the GDP, or one's own financial portfolio--as if I have such a thing.

But how does that saying go? If you're not good to yourself, you're not good for anybody. For anyone who values me in any way--whether because of the work I do or love I give--it's necessary that I write, and become the person my spirit has always been. Had I not been writing, had I not started my transformation, it's entirely possible I wouldn't be here at all, much less the person they--and I--value.

Does this mean that the responsibility anyone has to anyone else really begins with the resposnsibility one has to one's self? Well...If that's the case, some writers I revere are correct. (Not that I thought they weren't!) Responsibilty to others begins with responsibility to one's self. Isn't that the basic message of A Doll's House? Isn't that at least a subtext of any Shakespearean tragedy? Or any number of other works you'd care to name? Richard Russo, he of Empire Falls fame, said that novelists hold characters accountable for their actions, or something like that. Sounds about right to me.

I did not choose to have my gender identity conflict, any more than I would choose to be born with a crooked spine. But I did choose--however unconsciously--the ways in which I dealt, or didn't deal, with it. Whether I played sports, acted upon borrowed homophobia, or got into relationships--and, yes, a marriage--that gave me cover, I was making choices. So was I the day I finally did what a therapist told me I needed to do twenty years earlier and talked to a psychiatric social worker and a doctor about the way I felt. The first time I mentioned it--to Jay, who was then serving as an intake counselor at the Gender Identity Project (at the LGBT Community Center of New York)--I felt as if I were, for the first time in my life, telling someone the truth about something.

For as long as I can remember, I've heard the saying "A woman's work is never done," or some variation of it. Now I think I'm just starting to understand what it means. Of course, I'll never give birth to a child and, unless Dominick and I adopt, I'm never going to raise one. So I'm not likely to understand how it feels to be a mother. As best as I can tell, being a mother means having someone depend on you, no matter where you are or what time it is. Even after she's taken care of one person, there's someone else in need of the mother.

I'm not likely to experience anything like that. However, there is another kind of work that always finds you when you're a woman. That is, of course, the work you need to do to repair, replenish, rejuvenate, refresh or simply to sustain who and what you are. And you have to do it after you've taken care of all those obligations you have, or people think you have, to them.

When you're a man, there is sometimes recreation, at least. You can just pull back or pull away, and be done with it: Whatever you accomplish during the day defines you, and you can rest on that. But as a woman, you're not defined so much by accomplishments as by what you have done for, and given to, others, and what people think you have done and given for them. So there really is a need to do entirely for one's self, or more precisely, for one's own being. That's why so many of us love to shop, as I do, although that's not necessarily the answer.

I guess the reason why we, as women, have this need to do for, and be for, ourselves at the end of the day is that there is so little in the culture to sustain a girl's development into a real, formidable woman. Most of the movies, TV shows and even the so-called fine arts--not to mention education--only teach girls to fill up some cariacture of femaleness.

In other words, they learn only to be what their mothers, grandmothers, teachers and other women in their lives have been: someone who serves others while ignoring her own needs.

I guess, in some sense, that is something I have in common with other women. The ones born with uteri are not given the language or other tools they need in order to find out and fulfill the mandates of their own spirits. For them, almost nobody knows how to show them how to find, much less nurture, their true selves. And nobody, not even I, knew--or, later, could or would acknowledge--that I needed the same thing: to find and nurture my true female self.

And so our work never ends.

Younger than Before

When I was younger, younger than before
I never saw the truth hanging from the door
And now I'm older see it face to face
And now I'm older gotta get up clean the place.

That's the first stanza of Nick Drake's "Place to Be." I've been playing that song quite a bit lately, and it goes through my mind, especially when I am alone. The undulating, but not quite lilting guitar chords, don't merely accompany the words: They lift, but do not float, the song on its journey through space and time. If I were to listen to something while taking a long bike ride, this would be perfect, at least for part of it.

Here's the rest of it:

And I was green, greener than the hill
Where the flowers grew and the sun shone still
Now I'm darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be.

And I was strong, strong in the sun
I thought I'd see when day is done
Now I'm weaker than the palest blue
Oh, so weak in this need for you.

"Now I'm darker than the deepest sea." It sort of reminds me of what, if I recall correctly, Antonio Machado said: "We die not from darkness, but from cold." And he and other poets, including James Wright, wrote about people growing darker as they age.

But it's that first stanza that goes for the gut. "I never saw the truth hanging from the door/And now I'm older see it face to face." Although I did see the truth about myself--actually, I sighted it and turned away as quickly and violently as I could--the day on which it came face-to-face came much later. That, of course, was the day I saw that woman in Saint Jean de Maurienne and realized I could no longer live in this world as a man.

But there are other kinds of truths that have come face-to-face. Like my attraction to men (although my feelings for women have not died). And that I absolutely must write and teach because, well, what am I if I don't do either? Although I didn't really get the opportunity to show what I could do in my previous position--which had a long, pretentious title--I know that fighting that battle now would be just another distraction. So, I have surrendered it, if without grace. Then again, there aren't many things I do gracefully.

Anyway, to return to the topic of the passage of time: Over the last few days, I've begun to feel as if much of my life happened more than a hundred years ago. Yet, I don't feel as if the time has passed, at least not in the ways to which I am accustomed. However, I also don't feel as if I've gone from chronological Point A to chronological Point B in some kind of time machine. I feel as if I have spiritually, and even physically, passed through all of those years and all of the places I saw during that time. They were, for an instant, as immediate and at times painful as they were when I first entered and left them.

I really do as if I've passed through a hundred years. But I don't feel that much older. (Not that I would know what being a hundred years older would feel like!) In fact, I feel as if I've scarcely aged at all.

If you're thinking, "Hey, cool," well, it is, in a way. What I've experienced really does turn the past into the past. On the other hand, it's disconcerting and exhiliarating at the same time: I feel like someone who's just showed up in this world and is taking her first steps, much like those of the Apollo 11 astronauts on the moon. I feel as if I've been jettisoned from my old world, from my past, after having had only that past as a resource.

What that means is that I can't act out of memory. Somehow I've become acutely aware of this after the week that just passed. I have taken walks, seen plays, gone to dinner and done all sorts of other things with the women and men with whom I've been romantically or sexually involved, as well as with friends, family members and co-workers. But somehow none of it applied when Dominick and I walked along Long Island Sound at the former Fort Totten, when we circulated among the crowd at the reception that followed the play we saw at the college, and even when we just whiled time away after walking out of the movie.

The past year, the past five years, the previous five, the forty that came before: all of them seem frozen in some sort of amber that I couldn't crack even if I wanted to. It seems that the people with whom I am friendly now--and I include my parents--have either moved away, and helped me to progress from, it or simply weren't part of it in the first place. I also realize now that those who've decided they no longer want to be friends or otherwise continue relationships with me have chosen to enclose themselves in that amber: They only know the past, and how I was in it, and don't want to move on, with or without me.

It seems I have been handed down, given a place to be. But I'm still getting used to it, really. After all, I only entered it--slowly, and with a lot of fear--five years ago. And I'm fifty now: at the end of a ray of time, but still younger, younger than before.

Leaving a Movie for the Imagination

Tonight Dominick and I went to a movie. We lasted through the first twenty minutes or so of Quarantine, a remake of a movie I've never seen. Whether or not that makes any difference, I'll never know.

I don't know which of us damned he movie more. Dominick said it reminded him of The Blair Witch Project, but wasn't as good. I replied that I felt like I was watching The Exorcist without the charm.

Because it was made in a psedo-documentary style, I can see the connection to Blair Witch. On the other hand, the sheer grotesqueness of some of the footage does recall The Exorcist. The only problems are that the story isn't as compelling and the acting isn't anywhere near as good in Quarantine.

Anyway, getting out of there gave us an excuse to wander a bit and laugh together. We were passing time and neither of us wanted to go home. So he drove up 36th Street into the upper part of Astoria. It looked like someone was staging a miniature version of the San Gennaro festival, complete with greasy sausage and pepper sandwiches and zeppole.

Since we both know better than to connect anything in a "festival" like that with our heritage, Dominick and I didn't eat any of the food or partake in any of the arcade games. The still air grew colder under not-quite-silver three-quarter moon, so we didn't want to walk outside. Instead, we ducked into the church for a few minutes.

Carvings that looked like gargoyles adorned each end of each pew. The bulbs on the string of lights outside the stained glass window created the kind of image Van Gogh might've if he were simply melancholy among people who tried to cheer him up.

But it was enough to spark my imagination: I practically floated down the aisle seperating two rows of pews in a long, billowy dress to meet him on the altar. Somehow, as non-religious as each of us are, we cannot imagine doing it any other way, in any other institution. At least, Dominick tells me he feels that way.

Change, Then and Now

During the year before I started living full-time as a woman, I had a lot of thoughts about, and flashbacks to, very early in my childhood. I'm talking about the time before I entered kindergarten. For one thing, I was trying to pinpoint possible sources of my gender identity conflict, and when I first became aware of it. I still don't have the answer to either question, but I know when was the first time I became aware of what the conflict between my body and spirit could mean. It was my first day at school, when some adult who wasn't my teacher told the boys to get on one line and the girls on the other. You know where I stood. And so the complications began.

Up to that moment, I knew--even though I didn't have the words--that I wasn't quite a boy, and that I wouldn't become a man. And being, actually, a rather sheltered kid in spite of my family's relative poverty, my gender identity really wasn't that much of an issue. When my mother worked, I spent my days with her parents. I don't recall my grandmother doing things, or giving me any toys, that were boy-specific: no toy soldiers and such. Sometimes my grandfather took me on "train rides" on the subways. As I recall, I wasn't so enthralled by the machinery as I was by the panorama of places and people we saw from the windows.

Some might say that I longed for the safety and security I felt then. Perhaps. It's one thing to know who you are, or aren't, even if you have only the name that was given to you but not the names of the ones who do battle within you. But suffering with the complications that arise when you still don't know those names, much less how to resolve or otherwise deal with such a conflict, is much worse. It's like always feeling, within, the cold that fills you after someone you find repulsive finds a way to get you into his or her bed.

Anyway, around the time I began to live full-time as a woman, my reminisces turned toward my puberty and early adolescence. That may have had something to do with the changes my body were undergoing after a few months on hormones: My breasts were growing and my skin was growing softer, among other things. This is often referred to as a "second" puberty, and--for me, at least--fits of uncontrollable giggles or crying over romantic songs on the radio accompanied it.

Now I find myself flashing back to the fall semester of my senior undergraduate year at Rutgers. Somehow that fall felt particularly autumnal, as I understood what that meant. The weather was about right: save for a couple of days, it wasn't exceptionally cold or warm, as I remember. But more important, I knew that changes were already happening and more were to come.

Nearly every chance I got, I took the NJ Transit and PATH trains to "the city"--the one in which I have lived for more than two decades. Sometimes I went to see a play in some little space in the East Village or to hear someone or another play in some bar or cafe I probably wouldn't have gone to for any other reason. Still other times I just hung out--in the bookstores, on the Village streets, or on the Staten Island Ferry. Of course, I never set foot on Staten Island: I rode the boat back and forth, inhaling the metallic briny mist on the front deck as the boat surfed rippled water in sight of the skyline, a few bridges and the Statue of Liberty.

Even when I walked or rode my bike around the campus, my mind was on that ferry, those streets, those bookstores and cafes and theatres. You might say that I was in college, but not of it.

Sometimes I regret that now, but then it made sense. For one thing, all I had to do was accumulate enough credits to graduate: I had already fulfilled my major and course distribution requirements. And I was guaranteed to graduate with an entirely unexceptional record: Phi Beta Kappa was out of the question. What's more, I anticipated that within a few months, I would be somewhere else, and I would probably never see any of my fellow-students, or professors--or, for that matter, the school itself--ever again.

Sometimes I feel that way about the college in which I'm teaching. Will I come back after my operation? Intellectually, I know the answer is "most likely yes." But who knows?

Don't get me wrong: I'm enjoying it. I am fortunate enough to have two classes I truly enjoy, two that are satisfactory and one that, well, has its moments, but isn't terrible. And, I must say, some faculty and staff members seem to be going out of their way to treat me well.

I noticed this tonight, when I went to see Anna in the Tropics in the college's theatre. First, the playwright, Nilo Cruz, read a short play he said he had to write before he could do Anna. Then a reception followed, to which Dominick came after work. Maybe he's the reason I felt more comfortable than I had at previous gatherings. Of course, that's how I feel with him. Perhaps the other faculty and staff members I saw were responding to that in me.

Cady Ann offered the best example of that. She's the English Department secretary and one of my favorite people in the college. "Is he your..."

I nodded.

She hugged me. "Congratulations. He's beautiful."

"Thanks. I know..."

"Listen to you!"

"I know his real beauty."

"Of course. Why else would you be with him? But he is cute..."

"Well, thank you."

"I'm so glad for you."

Now there's a difference between myself and that year when I was facing, with dread, the prospect of the rest of my life, as a man. What would I have been like if I'd had Dominick back then? Of course, that's really just another way of asking what my life than would have been if I could be the person I am now.

And what was I doing during my senior year? Well, I had a few one-nighters, mostly away from the campus. But, when I was on campus, I was hanging out with Betsy, and letting everyone think I was more of a stud than I ever could be. Guys would nudge me and wink upon seeing her. If anyone asked what we did, I would only grin. Of course I wasn't going to talk about the conversations we had about the things in which we'd lost our faith, or the times when she talked me out of jumping off a ledge or taking a razor blade to the lines I'd marked on my wrists.

No, I haven't lately been thinking about offing myself: In fact, the notion hasn't even crossed my mind since I started my gender tranisiton. And, Dominick is not just eye and arm candy, even though he could be.

Change--at least, the prospect of it--is the common denominator between now and then. The difference is, of course, I have some idea of what that means, and could mean. This, of course, does not imply certainty.

An E-Mail and a Warp In Time

An e-mail made my day today, even though its tone was sad and rather anxious.

Sajidur, who took three classes with me, graduated last year. Since then, I've thought about him a lot. And, last year, I really wished he was around: One becomes an educator to be of service to people like him, not to academic bureaucrats. He is very smart and works hard. Best of all, he appreciates what you do, no matter how small it is, for him, and you find yourself appreciating him because he's, well, him.

How can I describe him? Well, he's not tall or in any other way physically imposing. But he is formidable, in part because of what most people would call his intelligence. Yes, he does have more intellectual prowess than most people. But more important, at least in my opinion, is what I like to think of as his spiritual quotient, if you will.

As I got to know him, I came to realize that his appreciation for literature--and his ability to write about it--is really part and parcel of the same gift that allows him to understand his major, business, so well. You might say he's a creative spirit, although I doubt he would ever describe himself as a creative anything.

Even when we talked about an assignment for the class, I felt somehow as if our souls, rather than our egos, were conversing. Too often, people conflate ego with intellect. I have done that myself: I have done things ostensibly for intellectual reasons, but they were really a gratification of my ego. In other words, I took inordinate pride in being smart enough--or, more accurately, having people think I was smart enough--to do whatever I was doing, whether it was playing Scrabble or explaining how a particular kind of poetry works and how it's related to quantum mechanics.

All right, that last part is fiction. I've never in my life compared anything to quantum mechanics, mainly because I don't know what it is. But I have given explanation that were pure mierda de toro and congratulated myself, mainly for impressing someone who didn't know any better.

Anyway, back to Sajidur. He wants to meet for a heart-to-heart talk. A lot of things he never could have anticipated have happened to him since graduation, he says, along with the way this country has deteriorated economically and politically (and, to my mind, spiritually) during that time. Everybody's tense and anxious, or so it seems, and I don't envy anyone who has to find a job.

He also said he read an article I wrote a couple of weeks ago. In it, I said that the United States has become an economic plutocracy. "I couldn't agree more," he said. " The greed has taken us to lands belonging to others and killing and destroying without justification. " I couldn't have said it any better.

Now you know another side of him: He doesn't go around saying "evil capitalist system" or anything like that. He had expressed interest in a career in international business. But, at the same time, he doesn't see greed as a good business practice or conquest as the only kind of success.

However, the part of his e-mail that struck me most was near the end, when he said "All of a sudden I feel twenty years older." I can relate to that, oddly enough, because my recent exprerience has been almost the inverse of that: I feel younger than I did twenty years ago (and people who've known me, or seen my old photos, say that I look younger), and somehow that makes those times seem even more distant. Maybe it's because, paradoxically enough, getting older has meant becoming more whole, and in some ways, simpler.

Well, there's also the fact that my undergraduate days are much further in the past for me than Sajid's are for him, or anyone else his age. What that means, for me, is that I really don't think much about them these days, so I don't dwell on how long ago they were. For me, those days were mainly a time of confusion and anger, so I have less reason to think about it than I do.

In any event, I just want to see him again. Maybe soon...Anything I can do to help the time pass without aging him, or me.

From Denials to Uniting

Today I got to spend some time with Dominick, finally. I don't think we've been together since the school year started. So a season has passed, literally, since then.

And have either of us changed? Maybe. The last time we saw each other, only our thin summer clothes seperated one of us from the other. But today, a rather warm day with a cool breeze that reminded me that yes, indeed, it's autumn, I felt as if...

Well, I'll try to describe it metaphorically, through a place we visited: Fort Totten, on Long Island Sound in Bayside. It was decomissioned about fifteen years ago, I think. Now it's a park that is accessible only to cyclists and pedestrians.

(Why are military bases such great places when they're not military bases anymore?)

Along the road that loops around the perimeter of the park--and, for about half of its length, curves with the shoreline--stand sturdy old red brick buildings that once housed officers. At one point, three of the buildings open out to a patch of lawn. And they're all covered with ivy that, like the leaves on the trees, has just begun to turn various shades of red and yellow and gold.

It seems that buildings like those are made specifically to be looked at in autumn. And there they were, on the edge of that road that, from there, made a turn toward the sea.

So it was possible to see, if only fleetingly, those colors of turning, changing earth transposed and then merged with the metallic blue and gray waves of the water, sky and a bridge a bit off in the distance.

Was I looking at two parts of the same soul uniting? Or two souls, or minds, joining, or at least drawing closer?

I have always loved both the tones of the sea and the shades of the earth. But I never really expected to see both in harmony. And I guess I'm one of those people who, if she doesn't expect to see something, she fights or denies it until there is no other choice. Then she doesn't "learn" to love it; rather, the love finds her.

I spent three years denying how I felt about Dominick. There were the rationales: he was too young; we saw things too differently; I'd had relationships exclusively with women for the previous 20 years, etc. But over the past year or so, it's come to the point that I can't, and don't want to, deny him--deny his love--any longer. And I certainly don't want to deny it because it is something I never expected to have in my life.

That, by the way, is a pretty good analogy to how I reacted over getting the job I have now. I had long since given up any hope of getting a full-time faculty position at a college because I'm too old, don't have a PhD and don't fit into academic culture. And this semester, when I got one--if by default--I let the college's administration drag me into it kicking and screaming instead of running to embrace it. And I used the same sort of reasoning: I'm too old, don't have a PhD, don't fit in and will be resented by my colleagues for getting in through the back door, so to speak. In fact, I went all the way back to my youth, when I told myself that teaching was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do.

At one time, sleeping with a man was just about the last thing I would've allowed myself to do. Being a woman was probably the only thing I was less willing to do. And in both cases, they were exactly what I wanted. At least, to be a particular kind of woman with a particular sort of man--although, I must say, both turned out to be a little different from what I'd expected. Better, actually.

As was this day: better than anything I could've anticipated. And so was the dinner we had at the end of it: at a waterside restaurant called Louie's in Port Washington. Neither of us had eaten lobster or any other shellfish in some time, so we ordered a "clambake special" that included two lobsers, a few clams and oysters, corn on the cob, a potato and cole slaw. All of that after an appetizer of calamari and home-baked bread. All of it washed down by cheesecake and coffee for him, mint herbal tea for me. All of it delicious. And each of us brought home a lobster and other things we couldn't finish.

Just in front of our table, Louie's pier jutted out into the water. Twilight was turning into evening, and I saw a light, above the skimming boats and their flickering reflections, in the horizon. And I recalled that we were in Gatsby country, more or less. And it is not the end of summer or the beginning of fall; it is autumn now. Autumn, with three more seasons to follow until I unite in the way I've always wanted: my body to my soul. Or as close as they're likely to come in this life. My body to my soul; my soul to another. To his.

Lost?

So today's the "real" Columbus Day. It means, what, that we're celebrating some guy who got lost on his way to India from Spain.

In celebration of getting lost...hmm, my life would be one of the longest-running holidays. I sometimes tell people that I'm a direct descendant of Columbus and inherited his navigational skills.

I've gone to other countries and gotten lost more times than I count. (Sometimes I think the first foreign phrase I should have learned is Je suis perdue.)

Getting lost can be frustrating or fun, or both. Of course, when you have to be at a certain place at a certain time, it can put a crimp in your plans. However, when you're not in a hurry, you can see all kinds of interesting things and meet even more interesting people. The only problem is that if you try to find them later, you might not: It's hard to get to a place on purpose after you've reached it by getting lost, or at least not going according to plan.

You might say that a good part of my life has been about being lost. After all, I was always in a foreign country, if you will: I never seemed to speak the language, or do anything else, the way the natives and locals did. My body always seemed to be in the wrong place; I was out of place in my body. Sometimes I still feel that way, although I at least don't feel lost to myself.

Today I took a bike ride and didn't get lost. But I was taking a ride I've taken many times before, with someone who knew the way. To Point Lookout, which is near Jones Beach, and from there to Coney Island.

And now I'm back, and I'm not lost.

The World Didn't End Today

Late this afternoon, I went out to shop. Not a single cloud hovered in the sky; the breeze flickered the ends of my hair ever so slightly. Some people wore jackets and scarves; others, like me, dressed only one step away from the beach. My denim skirt fell to just above my knees, and a dark lilac-colored t-shirt clung to my chest but, thankfully, not my belly. And I stepped along in one of my most comfortable pairs of shoes: a pair of Keen flip-flops with soles like sports shoes, and a lilac-colored nylon thongs that curved from behind my toes to surprisingly graceful toe guards.

Along the way, I stopped at for some chicken and basmati rice from four guys who work out of a truck in front of a supermarket. They have won the Vendy awards, which are referred to as the food vendors' Emmys. The leader of them, who wears brightly printed pants and hats with food motifs, had his first grandchild last week, even though he looks younger than I do. And he and the guys were their usual friendly and funny selves.

And the chicken was the best I've had from them. That's saying something. To use a cliche, it melted in my mouth. Better yet, it filled my mouth with its tender yet spicy flavor that oozed from the moist, succulent flesh.

All right, so I'm not Gael Greene. I never said I was a food writer. But that chicken rivalled the best I've ever eaten. What amazes me is that those guys make such good food and keep everything so clean while working from a truck. Once, when I commented on it, they said it was because they're halal. I'll admit, the halal restaurants and stores in which I've eaten were clean and served mostly good food. (Then again, I'm a fan of Middle Eastern and South Asian foods.)

It's funny--Sometimes you know that plate of chicken, that bowl of soup, that bottle of beer (I haven't had any in decades), is going to be special, even though it's a brand of beer you've drunk or something you've eaten from a kitchen or restaurant from which you've eaten before

.

Could it be that the chicken was really that good? Or did it have something to do with the kind of day it was?

Very few days were ever prettier or felt nicer than today was. Nothing special happened; it was just one of those days in which you just can't even imagine hardship or evil, even after what you've heard on the news or read in the newspapers during the preceding days.

Everywhere you went during the past few days, people were talking about the economy. Of course. The stock market has just had the worst week in its history, and there's even talk about a depression. I know--I've written articles about--how what's happening now is a result of pure and simple mendacity and profound disrespect for other people. If you have any respect at all for someone, you don't lie to that person to get him or her to buy something he or she can't afford, much less shoot at him, her or anyone else who's never done any harm to you.

It's odd: When I was learning about the Great Depression in school, I somehow got the idea that Black Thursday was the "dark and stormy night" and that the days--years--that followed featured heavy gray skies and dust. Maybe it has to do with those grainy black-and-white photos. I never got the impression that the country--and much of the world--plunged into its economic abyss on a day like this one. I guess most people can't imagine Camus's "le mort en pleurait du ciel claire." I think (I hope) I'm remembering that passage from La Peste right: something about death coming out of the clear blue sky.

What I've just described--that expectation of terrible things happening under storm clouds--is exactly the reason to enjoy a day like this one. If wars, economic crises and such happen independently of nature, what is the point of not enjoying nature when it's to your liking? Also, if the storm on the horizon is going to strike where you live, you may as well prepare, and have some fun if you can.

For me, that joy came after I'd bought a pair of sneakers and was walking down the shopping strip of Broadway in Astoria. Walking toward my house means walking toward the East River--westward. Which means seeing sunsets. I could practically feel myself floating, even flying, in spite of--or maybe because of--everything. No matter what else has happened, at the end of the day there was still that glow of colors in the cloudless sky and a gentle breeze that makes my skin feels like delicate wings that are still strong enough to carry me lightly over what I have walked. I was weightless because, at least for a few moments, I could feel my own weight; I could feel my own weight because so much weight that wasn't my own--the inherited anger, the borrowed rage--has been lifted from me.

When I lose those emotions, I feel sorrow--yes, sometimes for myself-- at least until I find something to learn.

I don't know exactly what I've learned, at least not yet. Maybe it was just another lesson in living in the moment--which isn't always the easiest thing to do when you're looking forward to something. But, really, none of us has any choice but to live in the moment, if not for it.

And today I--and millions of other people--were able to live under a nearly cloudless sky and weather that only the most committed nihilist couldn't love.

Best of all, it was the moment, and I was the person I am--Justine--living it.

A Friendship Between a Man and a Woman

Today Bruce and I went to a Thai restaurant near his office in Soho for lunch. We often meet on Fridays for lunch, and we'd been to that restaurant before. The food's always been good and the place is cozy enough to be comfortable but not too compressed for a claustrophobe like me. And, it seems, whenever we go there, one of us shares some story or another that reveals, or more exactly, confirms something one of us always suspected of the other.

Today Bruce told me of how his intervention may have saved a young woman's life, or at least kept her from even more harm than she suffered. Four young men were hanging out on the block where Bruce lives. They all were dressed in the same outfit, with some sort of logo. The young woman in question was walking down the block, toward a club around the corner. Bruce was on the opposite side of the street, walking to his house.

The young men stalked and tried to accost the young woman. But Bruce crossed the street and walked between those young men and the young woman to the corner. Then, a split-second after he turned away and started to walk back to his house, he heard her scream.

One of those young men grabbed her. As she explained afterward, she thought he wanted her purse, so she slid it down her wrist so he could take it easily. But he didn't touch it. Instead he struck and grabbed her, and banged her head against a car.

Well, Bruce charged at the guy and scuffled with him. He ended up with a cut and bruise on his upper lip and a few other scratches and cuts. The young man took off and joined his cohorts, who, it seemed, were hiding behind a car. They made a dash through the parking lot of a supermarket across the street, and disappeared into the night.

Bruce made no attempt to portray himself as a hero, which is typical of him . Rather, he said that it was the only thing he could do, ethically and practically.

I thanked him, on behalf of that woman. "I've never met her, but you did something for me when you helped her." He seemed to understand what I said. I've known him long enough to have smake sense of things that made even less sense.

Somehow I felt more like a woman--specifically, his female friend--as he told this story. Of course, this has to do with how I felt for the young woman I've never met and most likely never will meet. But more important, something I long suspected became absolutely palpable: his unique combination of a strong sense of himself and empathy.

In other words, he doesn't do things like helping that young woman to affirm his manhood or to exact vengeance against anyone or anything. After he related the story, I realized that this is the reason why I've always felt safe--even protected--with him, even though for much of the time we've known each other we were doing the sorts of things male buddies do together. (Yes, we've been to a sports bar together. And we once pursued the same woman, who finally chose "none of the above.") In other words, what he did for her was utterly characteristic of him, and I know he'd do something like that for me because, well, he has. No, he didn't face down a would-be attacker, at least not physically. But at various times, he has defended me against verbal and psychological bullies and was, well, there for me when I felt weak and vulnerable.

And so, as a woman, I really appreciated what he did for that young woman I most likely will never meet. On the other hand, if I'd heard it when we were younger, I probably would've cheered on his heroism or some ther such quality I wanted to find in myself.

So, while he has never been physically imposing, there are few people around whom I've felt more protected than I feel around him.

In other words, even though I've never had, and probably never will have, a romantic relationship with him, there are very few people around whom I've felt so safe and, in some way, protected. That, of course, is a major reason why I've been able to talk as freely as I do with him, and why he can telll me stories like the one he told me today.

It's as if he's always known what I, as a woman appreciate--even when I was acting like "one of the guys."

Nine Months

Last night I fell asleep in my chair while watching the Presidential debates. That's my excuse for not writing yesterday.

I also fell asleep during the Vice-Presidential debates. Might there be a pattern here?

So why am I upset to have missed yesterday's posting? Well, I realized today that yesterday marked exactly nine months until my surgery.

Nine months. We all know what happens during that time: a woman carries the one to whom she will give birth at the end of it. Of course, barring any really major advances in medical technology, that's something I'll never be able to do. And that's one thing about which I might feel sad (if I can, or want to, do such a thing) when I'm dying.

I don't regret not having fathered a child. Friends and family members probably thought I was afraid of responsibility: two women with whom I had relations said as much. But, if not how messed up I was, how I was messed up. At least, that's what I told myself it was then. In reality, I was dealing--actually, not dealing--with my gender-identity issues. All I did was to hate myself over them, and that self-hatred took over much of my being. If there was even the remotest chance that I could pass anything like that on to a child, I would be a criminal for taking it, I told myself. I still believe I made the right decision, if for the wrong reasons.

A few monts ago, Faria, who teaches at the college, said that I'm giving birth to myself. I thought: That's a great way of looking at my transition! For as long as I can remember, I was carrying, within me, the person whom I'm becoming. You might say that, even though my journey is not as physically arduous as that of the mother-to-be, I've been living my nine months, so to speak. Except that those nine months, if you will, have lasted for forty-five years. For a long time, the embryo I still am didn't grow; other times it evolved ever so slightly.

And now, here I am, at the beginning of the literal nine months. Somehow I expect those months will go by quickly but will be very intense. Actually, I think their intensity will make them go quickly. That alone may be a reason to be glad that I'm undergoing this transition now, rather than having experienced it earlier in my life. When we're younger, the time seems to go by more slowly and we have fewer ways of dealing with whatever comes our way.

I wonder if mothers-to-be imagine what they will be like--that is to say, how they might change--after their babies are born. Not that I would know, but I have a hard time imagining that someone is not changed--and I don't mean only physically--by bringing into the world a life she had been carrying within her.

One thing I know is that even though the surgery is a culmination of the changes we experience in our gender transitions, the transwomen I know changed in some way or another after their operations. They see people differently and have, in some cases, a confidence about themselves they never before had. I know that for some it is a disappointment, usually because they went into it for the wrong reasons. But the ones I know who've had the surgery have experienced happiness, or at least fulfillment they never had before. How could they not? That's what becoming whole does to you.

And I've heard any number of women say that they felt whole, or at least more so, after giving birth. Those nine months are really starting to sound good now. Here I've come!

What the Guys Try

Another day, another class, another meeting.

All right, it doesn't have quite the ring of "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow." But, thankfully, I'm not Macbeth, either--or even Lady Macbeth. At least, I don't think I am. And I hope I'm not.

Anyway, I had to take minutes at the department meeting. It's one of those jobs that ranks right up there with cleaning the bathroom. All right, it's not as dirty as that. But nobody, it seems, wants to do it. Including me.

And then, in class, two students who missed the previous two classes were trying to get out of the work by claiming that I didn't explain the assignments to them. Well, I can't explain it to you if you're not here, I told them. I may have broken a few laws in my time, but not those of physics.

Now, as to how any of this relates to my gender transition...Those students were young males. They probably are working, as everyone else in the class is. But somehow I don't get the impression they're working to keep rooves over their heads. If they were, they probably wouldn't act as they did.

I made a joke with one of them: "You know, if I could grade you only on your cleverness and creativity, I'd have to give you an 'A' for your efforts to get out of the assignments." He grinned; a few of the other students tittered. And the other student claimed that he e-mailed the assignments "a couple of weeks ago." Uh-huh.

One thing I can say with near-certainty: They probably don't try things like that with their male professors. They are both young and cute, but not in the ways they think. They're used to charming women, mostly younger than me, into giving them what they want. And, of course, if they know I'm trans, that's probably all the more reason (in their minds) for them to try and get over on me.

I know, because young men like them didn't try to play those games with me when I was still teaching as Nick. Now, I know that a few female students tried, and succeeded. But I was also younger then, and being full of testosterone, I was generally hornier. Not that I would ever do anything sexual with a student, of course. But I'll admit that a few batted eyelashes and crossed legs, shall we say, influenced me.

And that's the reason why I have to throw back at those guys whatever they give me. To tell you the truth, if I were younger and I'd met them in another situation, they just might get what they want from me. That might not be such a good thing for either of us.



So, you say, males and females are equally manipulative. You're probably right. The difference between them is this: The males go about it, as they do so many other things, with a much greater sense of entitlement than the females have. The way the young women turn and twist their bodies and wink or blink show, at least to me, that on some level they know, or at least believe, that they don't deserve whatever they want from you. The guys, on the other hand, hold their bodies and talk like they have it coming to them and it's your job to give it. Maybe that's the reason why their game is, for me, more ennerving than what the females play.

Not only that, the males--at least the ones I've been describing--really think that you're stupid and can think only with an organ that most of them have never seen. It's really the same kind of mentality that got Sarah Palin nominated for the vice-presidency. Yeah, us sisters are all joined at the hip and will reflexively pick the same thing. Or, if they don't think you're dumb, they think we're like their mothers, or what they wish their mothers were. On the other hand, females see male professors (or males in general) as kind of powerful, or at least influential. And females, particularly the young ones, use their relative vulnerability to appeal to a male's power or influence, or his unspoken sense that he has them.

Now, this is not to say all males or females are as I've described. But there are those who just use whatever charms they have to try to manipulate members of the opposite (or sometimes the same) gender into giving them what they want. And when you're a professor, you see at least a couple in every class. But now I see it's the male students. Don't they realize I lived as one of them?

Denials from Their Child and Grandchild

Today a sadness set in. I was working on my bike, which can get me meditative sometimes. (As if I need to be more meditative!) It rained last night and this morning, and most of the day was overcast and rather chilly. It's the downside of fall.

I was thinking about Grandma again. The other day was the anniversary of her death. Strange, isn't it, that she died two days after her 68th birthday and Grandpa died on his 72nd birthday.

For about two or three years after her death, I went through one of the most prolonged periods of severe depression I've experienced. For me, that's saying something, because I was essentially clinically depressed from some time in my childhood until I was 44 years old. But during those years immediately after her death, I was about as bad as anybody could be without being confined. Maybe I was sick enough to be criminally insane and simply didn't get caught.

As I recall, I had been drinking enough to float away a few islands (except for the one--me--I really was trying to float away, or float away from) and doing a fair amount of drugs. And I was sleeping with people I wouldn't go anywhere near now--and having unprotected sex. Around the time Grandma died, almost nobody outside the Village or Castro had heard of what would come to be called AIDS. And those who knew were still calling it "gay cancer." So, I reasoned (sic), I wasn't going to get it because I wasn't gay. (Which, of course, I'm not: I'm a bisexual woman who's functioning as a heterosexual one.) Never mind that my sexual partners included men. But they were not the majority, and none were more than one-nighters. And one was part of a menage a trois with the woman with whom I was about to break up and the guy she would marry about a year later, so that didn't count because it was kinda sorta straight.

OK, you can laugh at my logic, if you want to call it that. I do now. But I also understand something about the down-low. In other words, I know why men deny that they're anything but straight while they're sleeping with other men. It's always an "experiment" or some such thing, even though it's the 45th time it's happened. I said things like that to anyone who asked. I mean, it was terrifying enough to admit that I was bisexual, never mind gay or transgendered.

It was during that dark period after my grandmother's death that I went to a therapist for the first time. I skipped our second scheduled appointment, ostensibly because I didn't have the money. Actually, that was true: I wasn't making much money (not that I do now!) and I was often broke, or close to it. So, she scheduled a session for the following week, for free, and said we would discuss fees. Then she offered me a very reduced rate. I took her up on it for a couple of weeks.

Near the end of my fourth session with her, she declared, "First of all, you need to go to AA, or to do something like it that will help you with your drinking problem. And next, I think you need to see a gender specialist."

Talk about getting your baloon popped! With no conviction at all, I muttered, "Thank you." And I left her office, never to return.

It took me a few years before I acted on her first recommendation. And, about fifteen years after that, I took up her second. Sometimes I'm tempted to look her up and see whether she's stilll practicing (She may be retired by now.) I don't know what I'd say to her, or what she'd say to me.

Well, I could tell her I'm not on the down-low anymore. But she would know that, just by seeing me. Ditto for the drinking and drugs.

Grandma wouldn't have approved of those things. However, I don't know how she'd take my changes. I actually did "come out" as gay (mainly because I didn't feel like a straight man and the idea of being transsexual--the word we used then--was too terrifying!) to her when I was in my sophomore year of undergrad school. Because of her beliefs, she said, she could not give her blessings to it. But, like my mother, she would not deny me, for I was her beloved grandchild.

One thing she'll never know is that what she said has helped me, especially now. Always her grandchild and my mother's child. So don' mess wid me. ;-)

A Prism of Time

A few weeks ago I signed onto a website called classmates.com. On it are pages for high schools, colleges and other institutions (prisons? mental hospitals?). And, as the name implies, there are sub-pages for different graduating classes--including 1976 at Middletown Township High School in New Jersey.

Although I was very curious, I was hesitant to join at first. You might say that I was looking at the place, time and people in it through same the prism through which I saw them back in those days.

All right. I'll admit: That previous sentence isn't totally mine. It's something a very wise person told me.

And who was that sage? She was the first person to send me a message in response to what I posted on that site. Her name is Sue; back then I thought she was the "nicest" person in the school. It was the best word I --or nearly anyone else in that school--had for describing her. It's entirely accurate, but I think there was something else, too--which came out in the message she wrote to me.

What I think most of us meant by "nice"--in addition to her always-pleasant demeanor--was the fact that she was also the most non-judgmental person in that place. I take that back: She would tell us what we really needed to hear, but she did it in a way that you knew she was not judging your actions, much less you. Rather, she tried to show you things you didn't even know about yourself, and why you were doing what you did--and it was always helpful.

I used to think she could become the next Dear Abby, or someone like her.

Anyway, in her message, she congratulated me on my change (I wasn't expecting that of anybody!) and said, in essence, that high school can be a really tough time socially for some people like me, but that she thinks I'm very brave for doing what I've done.

To me, that's just stunning. I am thinking of her now as I saw her then: as someone I liked because she was, I believed, a much better human being than I could ever be, although she would never admit to such a thing about herself. Maybe I am brave--She's not the first person who has told me that--but on the way to becoming who I am, I have been monumentally cowardly, intensely angry and monstrously egocentric. Sometimes I still am those things. What's worse is that I have fought the impulse to be better than all of that, and forgetting the things that were done to me, because I didn't want to give someone else or another the gloating satisfaction that he or she got his or her way with me.

Some of that, of course, comes from looking at old experiences in the same way I saw them when I was experiencing them.

But it's still odd, at least for me, to think that anyone could call my doing what I needed to do for myself "bravery" or "courage" --or would say that in the first communication I've had with her, probably, since we graduated more than 30 years ago.

Speaking of the prism through which we see things: The person I was then would not have seen the person I am now as "brave" or "courageous." I would have hated her simply because I would have envied her too much. I take that back: I hated her because I envied her, and because I knew that she was keeping that young man alive then. Knowing that my dream, the one and only thing I really cared about, was to become Justine made me sad, angry and all sorts of other things because I didn't think I would do it because, well, I didn't have the courage.

It's kind of odd: Another person might have that person he or she always loved, that flame from youth that he or she never forgot. And sometimes that person and the old--and possibly unrequited, at the time--love reunite at a class reunion, after divorce from or the death of a spouse, or in a mid-life crisis. That old--sometimes first--love flickers, even seems to die, for many years until some void, or something, kindles that flame, or at least the memory of it. I think now of Miss Linde and Krogstad in A Doll's House. She married a man who could support her and her dying mother; he married a woman he never loved and, as he said, nothing else in his life worked, either. After the death of her husband, Linde comes to spend the holidays with the Helmers,when she sees Krogstad for the first time in many years. And, after they were catalysts, if unwittingly, of the Nora Helmer leaving Torvald and their children, Krogstad and Mrs. Linde decide to marry.

But for me, the person whom I always carried within me was the one I would embrace when after my attempts to embrace anybody and anything else fell apart: after Tammy (not the choreographer) was gone and others were long gone. I could never love them because I did not love myself. After the others were gone, there was only me--Justine. And she--I --was willing to love that person--Nick, the person who could not love her.

Some of us, I guess, are lucky enough to get second chances with first loves. Or even first friendships. That's what new prisms are for.

Losing the old game

Today I was dragged into something kicking and screaming. And I came out, well, on a kick.

I don't have classes on Friday, so I wouldn't have been going to the college. Except for this: One of the Deans decided to have a faculty orientation workshop, or some such thing. Since it was intended for new faculty, I thought it would include stuff about how to write syllabi, do lesson plans and such. Or, I thought, it would feature some senior faculty member or other talking about his or her latest educational theory. That stuff can get really boring. Yes, it's good to exchange ideas. But in the end, teaching is nothing more than clearly communicating something to someone. It ain't rocket science, ya know.

And the announcement did mention that there would be a workshop on grants led by the grants officer, whom I know a little bit. Again, I wasn't sure how useful or interesting it would be to me: After all, I'm just a lecturer, and there are no expectations of research from me.

So what did we get? Well, besides some cookies and coffee (What? No lunch!), we got a tour of the FDA laboratories that are just behind the campus. Now, I guess I can understand what the Dean who organized it was thinking: he's in the sciences, and so are most of the new hires. Not that I abhor science. But the tour of the FDA was, well, not as interesting as it could have been. That wasn't the fault of the people who led the tour. Instead, it had to do with timing: Today is Friday, so very few of the scientists, technicians or other workers were there. So we got to look at laboratories and equipment, but we didn't get to see anybody using them.

Then again, I did get to talk to a few of the new faculty members. Actually, one of them was, like me, an adjunct instructor who was working a full-time non-faculty job until she got a full-time faculty appointment this year. So I often saw and exchanged greetings with her. But, today, I finally learned her name--Debra. And now I think she's even nicer and smarter than I thought she was.

After the tour, we went back to the campus for a pep talk about the union and the grants workshop. But I was noticing something: Everywhere I turned, it seemed, a man was holding a door open or trying to help me with one thing or another. Although I still need to lose some more weight, I was feeling good about the way I looked. Several people, including my department chair, told me I looked "really nice" today. I wore one of the skirts I got when Dad took me shopping: a floral-leaf print in deep shades of blue and green that, even with those deep hues, looked and felt as if it floated over my thighs to my knees. With it, I wore a French blue boat-necked top with a dusty royal blue cardigan that's part of a twinset, and a jacquard silk scarf in deep shades of blue and green, like the skirt, with a hint of purple--my favorite color. And green and blue are the colors I like next-best. People tell me that those colors bring out those same hues that are in my eyes.

Have you ever found people responding positively to you and you don't know why? That's what was happening to me. I don't know whether anything in particular triggered it, but I realize now that something was practically throbbing through me in spite of my attempts to shield it with a scowl and foetal posture.

I won't say that I'm a saint or even wonderful person. Ever since I began my transition, a number of people have told me that I have a "light" or "good energy" that radiates from me even when I'm not feeling particularly good. It seems that they can sense it when I can't or don't want to.

What can I tell you? I still have a contrarian streak, a voice that says, "It ain't all that." And then there were the bad experiences I had with various teachers and professors when I was in school: because of them, being a teacher was the last thing in the world I ever wanted. On top of that, I had constructed some pretty elaborate rationalizations for my hatred of institutions of educations. Some of those arguments, if I do say so myself, were valid and even rather elegantly explained.

But you know what? I know what my experiences are. But they're done; I've learned whatever I can learn from them, at least for now. My situation is different now. Therefore, it takes more and more mental energy and effort to keep up the anger and resentments I've had.

Maybe that's the reason why nobody buys my misanthropic pose. Of course, for a long time, I didn't know it was a pose, any more than my attempts to be a punk-rocker were. Yesterday, when my somewhat-nutty class was acting up, I asked them to be quiet and listen. To which one of my students intoned, "You're really not a yeller, are you? You just don't have that in you, right?"

I didn't tell her she was right. But I didn't deny it, either. Today nobody asked the question; everybody, it seemed, knew.

Anyway, everybody was being just, well, nice to me. And faculty members whose names I didn't know were coming up to talk to me. It didn't occur to me that they might know I'm transgendered, so I didn't think about the possiblity that they were curious. So I just let everyone do what they would: Debra smiling softly but sweetly in my direction; others giving me encouraging glances even though I wasn't looking for them.

And then, at the end of the workshops, some of the new faculty members with whom I hadn't spoken yet introduced themselves to me. One of them, Alex, is teaching geriatrics. I mentioned that I've become interested in how LGBT people age, and what effect it has on them. We even began to talk about a collaborative project.

Dawn, the Grants officer, overheard my conversation with Alex and said "You should apply for a grant, Justine. Come to my office some time."

And I'm going to talk to Alex. And Debra. I've lost my old game. What else can I say?

Now it's time to be, well, collegial. That doesn't seem so terrifying . So there I went, and here I am.

Thursday classes

Another Thursday, my longest day of the week. On "normal" Thursdays, I have a break in the middle of the day. But today I had a meeting, which took up much of that time.

Lemme tellya, it was tough going back after a couple of days off. But at least three of my four classes were really good. The fourth...well, let's just say they're in a different stage of development. The funny thing is, another class, all full of kids just out of high school. does the assigned readings and writings and is prepared to participate in class. And they're just, well, nice.

Not that the other class is--can be--nice, too. But, surprisingly, even though the students look a few years older, they are less mature. Of twenty students in that class, about twelve showed up, and three did the readings I assigned.

But the last class--they're great. It's one of the business writing classes I teach. Since it's an evening class, all of the students--all of them women-- come in from work. And I think only of them is under 35 years old.

Grandma's Birthday

Today I was thinking about my grandmother. Today would've been her 95th birthday. She died only two days after she turned 68.

A few years ago, my mother said, "I still think about her every day. And Grandpa, too. I don't know why; I can't stop." It's so untypical of her to speak this way: as someone who "can't" do something. As best I could, I reassured her that there's no reason why she should stop thinking about her mother and father, and that nobody has a right to put a timetable on her feelings. I don't know whether she believed it, but I noticed that it was one of those moments in which I could see our communication changing.

I think about Grandma all the time, too. She's probably the person who knew me best, besides my mother. And, of course, there were times when I felt that I could talk only to her.

Sometimes I wonder what my relationship might've been like if I started my transition earlier in my life, or if she had lived long enough to see it. When I thought I might be gay, simply because I didn't seem to fit into any of the other categories, I remember "coming out" to my mother--and her. My mother admitted that if it were true, it would disappoint her because I wouldn't give her grandchildren. (I never did, and one day five years ago, what I revealed changed everything more than possibly any grandchild, career choice or anything else could have.) And Grandma said that it goes against what she believes in. However, they both promised that I was their child and grandchild, and if I were indeed gay, that would not change. And it didn't.

Now, my mother has been nothing short of a saint since I revealed that I have been living by the name she would have given me, had I been given that "F" on my birth certificate. She will deny that she's been that good, but nobody could ever give me anything that means more to me than the emotional support she has given me and the material support she and my father have offered. And my father has been encouraging in ways that I never expected.

How might Grandma have responded? I can't imagine that, really, any more than I could anticipate the reactions of any number of people. She may have responded as she did to my first "coming out." Or she may have acted in some other way. I'd like to think that her unconditional love would have won out. But I never will know, will I?

I find myself thinking, at times, about what my relationships with people who aren't here now might've been like. I remember "coming out" to Uncle Sonny, too. He said, "Well, it was good enough for those ancient Greek writers. So you're in good company." Maybe he'd respond in a similar way. After all, he never seemed to have trouble in accepting people who were different in all sorts of other ways. Though he wouldn't watch a movie featuring "Hanoi Jane" Fonda, but he wouldn't miss a speech by Martin Luther King, Jr. He was the world's easiest-to-figure-out enigma.

About other people, I don't know. Trying to resume one friendship with someone I knew before I started my transition didn't turn out well: That person wanted Nick back.

Of course, that has no bearing on what might have been with Grandma. The relationship I had with her was the best it could have been, given who and what I was at the time. But I still wonder what might have been.

Well, at least she was in my life until I was 24. That helped me to get through some of the emotional turmoil I had to experience without the skills, such as they are, I have now.

I shouldn't demean those skills. After all, she helped me to learn some of them.

Things I Used To, And Might, Do

Today I had the day off for a holiday I haven't celebrated in nearly twenty years. And the period of my life during which I observed that holy day was brief: the time I was with Eva. So, if I recall correctly, we observed three Rosh Hoshannas. (I still haven't learned how to spell those names!) And I didn't mark that time of observance before I knew her.

Ironically, among the 114 students in the five classes I teach at the college, there is only one Jew. And she's a Falasha (sp?), again who was born in the Senegal. As I remarked to my students, there are probably more Jewish faculty members than students at York.

So, I sometimes say only half-jokingly, we should also have off on Muslim holy days. And Hindu ones. And, oh, let's not forget the Yoruba, Shinto, Zen, Santeria and Voodoo days of observance, if they have them. And while we're at it, we can't leave out the Wiccans or any Native American creeds now, can we? After all, our schools and workplaces are closed for all sorts of Christian holidays.

But I digress. I guess I shouldn't complain about having a day off. Still, it's difficult not to notice the irony of it.

And it got me to thinking again about the things I used to do, the things I'll never do again and what things I do, have done and will continue to do, well, just because.

All right. I won't list them all. But it's hard not to see the surgery little more than nine months away and to think about what I did, didn't, don't, won't and will never do again.

Most people who won't undergo the changes I'm experiencing associate the surgery--if they think about it--with the most banal things you can and can't do again, like pissing against a tree. I don't think I'll miss that, as I haven't pissed against very many trees. (I have more respect for them than to do that!) I do admit that I might miss peeing while standing up, as I never relish the thought of having to sit on a public toilet. Yes, I cover them and do all the things you're supposed to do. But it still doesn't make the task pleasant .

But those aren't the kinds of things you live for. Yes, some things can make life easier or more convenient, but they don't make life worth living. Trust me, I know about that!

Today I continued to swap my spring/summer clothes for my fall/winter ones. It's the last time I'll do that before the surgery, and I'll make one more switch in the other direction before then. The other day, John helped me to bring the boxes from the storage room I rent, but I didn't begin to unpack them until today. Part of the reason for the delay is that I knew I'd have more time today. Also, I guess somehow I was subconsciously delaying the switch: Now I really know that yet another stage of my life is done: gone.

What else won't I do again before the surgery? Well, I probably won't go to France or any other place further than Mom's and Dad's. Given my work schedule and other considerations, I probably wouldn't be going this year or next anyway. And somehow I get the feeling that if I go again, it's going to be very different, even from the trip I took to Paris four years ago. That one was very different from the ones I took only three and four years earlier, and I suspect that if I go again, there will be even more difference between that and my most recent trip there.

And what made the last trip different from the others? Well, for one thing, I wasn't running away. I also wasn't a lost soul in search of something; I'd found at least the beginnings of what I've needed all of my life. My only uncertainty was--and is--what will come next. But we never know that, anyway. Not knowing--or, worse, denying--who you are is much more of a handicap, I believe, than not knowing where you're going.

I already can't do some of the bike rides I used to do and I don't know whether I could even if I had the time and inclination to train properly. Maybe I will be able to ride even less, or less intensively, than I do now--or, of course, than I did ten years ago.




More important, I wonder whether there's some mental or emotional movement or habit into which I won't fall again, whether or not by choice. I know that people--the people I've known, anyway--think differently about one thing and another after life-changing events, like giving birth.




I even wonder sometimes whether this will be the last year in which I teach. Perhaps there's no rational reason--that I can see now, anyway--why I should stop, or be unable to, teach afterward. But even though it's been going well, I am not thinking about next year in the classroom, in a department meeting, or whatever.



Well, in nine months, I should start to find the answers. It wasn't so long ago that women--like my mother--waited without knowing the sex of the baby that would be born to them. Now I wonder...if anybody could see that I would have a guy's body parts and a girl's soul, what (if anything) would they have done?



Maybe no more than I'm doing now. Which is all I can do. Maybe I won't be able to do it tomorrow or nine months from now. But for now, it's what I am doing.

Giving Birth to the Present

Today I got to talk to Millie in passing. I mentioned that I have purchased a ticket to spend Christmas with Mom and Dad. I think I saw a tear well up at the corner of her eye.

I think the only time she was happier for me was when she found out that I'd scheduled my surgery and Mom and Dad said they would accompany me.

That encounter with Millie magnified, for me, a feeling I've had lately. I was further reminded of it when John, her husband, drove me to pick up a few things from the storage cubicle I rent. We were coming back through an industrial area that's was deserted, as it normally is on a Sunday. One of us mentioned that prostitutes frequented the area, which is not surprising. I recalled that during the first year I was living in the neighborhood--as Nick--I was approached on a couple of occasions.

When I said that, I felt as if I were looking at an old, fading photograph of that time, and those occasions. I could tell the most basic facts of the story: that I was approached by the streetwalkers. But I felt as if I were reciting some capsule summary, or an abstract of the narrative.

I recall now one of my professors at Rutgers who described his earliest teaching experience: in a military prep school. He said he taught some young men who would become some of the highest-ranking officers in the Navy. They would write summaries of various literary works, he said, and those summaries are probably all they remember of those works.

In other words, they didn't retain the poetry of the poems they read, or the human beings who are the characters of the novels and plays they were assigned. And the rhythms of the language were long lost, revivable only with a re-reading: something they would probably never do.

That is about as good an analogy I can come up with to describe how much of my previous life seems to me now. I can recall the facts, and I can even recollect some of what I felt. But--please indulge me this cliche--it seems almost as if another person lived through those experiences.

In some sense, it was a different person who lived my life--large parts of it, anyway-- until five years ago. I'm not the only one who thinks that, and I'm sure I'm not the first trans person to say something like that. But it's a disconcerting feeling. I sometimes feel as if Nick was a character I had to create for the sake of the story I was inserted into, and after he served his purpose, I dissolved him.

There came a time about three years into my new life when I mourned him. It didn't seem fair that he had to live parts of my life for me, and he couldn't partake of the happiness I'd found in living by my spirit.

Around the same time, something else began to make sense for me. I understood why I never really had any place to return to--no Garden, if you will. I have never been good about staying in touch with classmates, former co-workers or people I've known from one situation or another. Of course, some people I knew didn't want to remain in touch, or they or I said we would but didn't, for whatever reasons. And quite a few are dead now.

But even when I leave on good terms with supervisors, colleagues or anyone else, I never sustained the relationship. Somehow I always felt that nobody ever knew me, only Yeats' "tattered cloak upon a stick."

Even when I was with Mom and Dad last month, I didn't make any great effort to recall our pasts. It wasn't that being raised by them was so bad: In fact, given our circumstances (e.g., poverty, at least when I was a young child), they were very, very good. I think the fact that Mom and I have talked every week ever since I moved out, more than 30 years ago, says something.

Of course, there is much I wish I didn't have to recall, such as the molestations and other cruelties and violence I experienced--and inflicted. But neither Mom nor Dad was a cause or reason for any of that.

But even some of the more pleasant and recent memories are distant to me now. And, oddly enough, some of the experiences I had during my last couple of years before the transition. They all seem like part of some sort of fever-dream of which one can see only the shadow upon waking.

I haven't completely forgotten all of those episodes of my life. It's just that, at times, when I do talk about any but a few of them, I feel as if I'm relating someone else's experience, or a video of it.

In one way, this has all been good for me: When I'm around anyone who's known me for a long time, I don't try to settle into the past. Bruce and Millie are not simply people who've been in my life for a long time; they're good and kind people who enrich my life now. I say the same thing for Mom and Dad; there were memories in their house in Florida, though not of the kind that I'd have if, say, they'd remained in New Jersey or Brooklyn. But what matters is that they are caring and generous people, and are with me as I am giving birth to my self.

Of course! No one who has ever given birth, by whatever means or in whatever sense, is the same person he or she was before his or her progeny entered the world. Of course Mom would understand something like that; I think even Dad has an inkling of it.

And it also makes sense that my two ex-friends are, well, ex: For them, there is only the past, or at the part of my past which they've expereinced. Same for my brother who's not speaking for me.

The past is what they think they have. All I have, all anyone has, is the moment. It's the only point in time in which anyone can live. For me, that's a relief, really: It makes things easier for me.

Another Adolescence? Wisdom?

Drizzly and damp. Not quite the stormy day forecast for today. But it's been one of those days that keeps lots of people indoors, or keeps them from straying far from home.

So what did I do today? Laundry. Wrote an article. Cuddled cats. Cooked spaghetti. Real exciting day, huh?

Ironically, this day reminds me of a lot of days in the spring of 2003. It seemed that a lot of days that season were like this. It was my first spring in this neighborhood, after moving out of the place I shared with Tammy in Park Slope. Somehow, the gray, diffuse light was easier to live with than days of endless sun: I had been taking hormones for a few months, and felt raw and vulnerable--and a little scared, as I hadn't yet "come out" to very many people.

And on days like the one that just passed, and this night drizzled by the fine mist in the air, I find myself tending to things that need tending to, within as well as outside me.

Lately, I feel as if another layer of skin has been peeled away. I've been taking hormones for five years now, so I'm not sure it's the reason. Then again, it may be that back in the spring of '03, when I'd been on hormones for a couple of months, my body was reacting to that initial surge of hormones and I was like a child having her first growth spurt. But now, I feel something else is changing in me. I'm not so sure it's physical, although I think my breasts have grown a bit, and I feel that something around--or in--my eyes has become more female, if not more feminine.



A few weeks ago, around the time the semester started, I was feeling more senitive to--more easily hurt by--things people said. Of course, I went through something like this a few months after I started taking hormones. But now I feel like I've come to another level of sensitivity, or something.

It seems that lately, everywhere I look, someone wants to talk with me or some little kid wants to play with me. Sometimes the kids want to talk, too. Like the young girl I met while her mother was having an electrolysis treatment and I was waiting for mine. I had no sooner walked into the door than she introduced herself to me. Jasmine. And she just had to show me a toy that reminds me of the Etch-a-Sketch I had when I was a child. And her story book about race cars and drivers. I'm not sure what the moral of it is, but it was fun to hear her read and misread it.

Somehow I get the feeling I'll see Jasmine again. I don't know why.

It's not just kids, though. I've already had students "come out" to me and tell me about abusive boyfriends, difficulty in a marriage and with finances. One student, whom I'd guess to be about 40, told me about the her partner, whom she lost in the World Trade Center. She told me that to explain the fact she was missed class this 9/11.

Every time I've seen her, she was wearing black. I wonder if she's still in mourning. Even when I saw her smile, she looked kind of sad, though still kind. A few people--including Tammy-- described me that way in the years before I began my transition.

And I'm thinking of the lecture I attended last week at the college. I got in late, as one of my classes ended a few minutes before the lecture began and two students wanted to talk to me afterward. Upon arriving at the lecture hall, I took the nearest still-available seat, which happened to be next to a student I didn't know.

She kept on looking at me and smiling. I had no idea of how to take that. Of course, back in the day, it would've fed my ego: she was pretty. But now...Was she reading me?, I wondered. She seemed like a completely straight, if not narrow-minded, woman: I had a hard time imagining her attracted to other women, straight or otherwise.

Not that I would have acted on such an attraction if it were there, of course. But I quickly realized that it wasn't her attention: She was just a friendly young woman who was being nice.

Are you a professor here?

Yes, I am, I responded.

What do you teach?

English.

Oh, really. Which ones?

I mentioned that I am teaching Business Writing and Composition, but that I have also taught literature and research writing.

How can I get in touch with you?

I gave her my campus e-mail address and telephone number, and showed her where she could find my office.

I would like to see you again, she pleaded.

Of course. Now that you have my information, feel free.

I will. Thank you.

I haven't heard from her yet, but I've a feeling I will. About what, I don't know.

Hey, even cats and dogs I meet outside are walking up to me. It may well be that I'm growing more sensitive, or more understanding, as some people have said about me.

I mean, I'm not anything special or terribly unusual, really. I just wonder if people are sensing something else about me. A college staff member with whom I'm friendly said that I seem "more peaceful, more serene."

Well, yes, even amidst--or maybe because of--the craziness of a typical day, I do feel something calmer within me, within that sensitive skin of mine.

This is really odd, this combination of raw adolelscent nerve endings and the perception of wisdom, or something.

And another sign of change: I'm getting sleepy. G'night